To Analyse a Murderer
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: It takes a murderer to know a murderer. From the gilded streets of Paris to London's depraved East End, death can always be found. And so, as husband and wife sit over a cup of tea, they discuss a grisly string of murders committed by...Full summary inside.
1. Part I: The Exposition

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

Summary: It takes a murderer to know a murderer. From the gilded streets of Paris to London's depraved East End, death can always be found—since such is not uncommon for a phantom and his angel to encounter. And so, as husband and wife sit over a cup of tea, they discuss a grisly string of murders committed by London's most notorious serial killer. Erik analyses; Christine considers. Story set in between _Idle Recollections on a Red Death_ and _A Moment's Absolution_.

To Analyse a Murderer

_Paris, France_

_1st September 1888_

"_Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them._"_ – Alice Sebold_, author of _Those Lovely Bones._

…

"Oh, this is simply ghastly. Whoever could _do_ such a terrible thing?" Christine de Maricourt, former _p__rima donna_ of the Palais Garnier, found herself whisper as she read the morning paper, her eyes never leaving the article in hand. She stared at the newspaper's heading, a dark frown piercing that lovely pale brow.

_The London Times_ was one of several newspapers her husband purchased on a regular basis, since his interest in the world's affairs had only intensified in the years of her marriage to him. She had learned English under his tutelage—extraordinarily patient and attentive as he had been in her instruction, although both ultimately preferred a lively French annunciation, compared to the dull, commonplace tones accompanied by such a bland language as English—to understand the story before her, printed as it was in bold black ink: _Another Whitechapel Murder_.

A murder had been committed, and a woman left dead in the cold streets of a faraway London.

Christine could hardly imagine it; for even in her time in living in a crime-infested city as Paris, and the events centring around her own life, which had forever changed, not only hers, but also that of her husband's, had she found a sense of cold injustice done to this poor Unfortunate, this Mary Anne Nichols; or rather, Polly, as those who knew her had claimed her name to be.

She sipped her tea, half in thought. Inquests would undoubtedly be made; though she doubted much would come of them, given the unfortunate woman's profession. She again considered the paper's heading, just as her eyes swept over the words following it, and her look darkened. This murder had not been the first committed in the great span of London's long history, and would certainly not be the last.

A sense of ill-foreboding drew down her spine like a sharp knife; and Christine knew that, deep down, this was merely the prelude to something, most terrible. Mary Anne Nichols would not be so idly forgotten—not if her murderer and the papers had anything to say about it, for Christine believed it a man; as a man, not a monster, she realised, had the power to commit such a dreadful act, and therefore, take pleasure in his grisly work. She scarcely heard her husband enter the room, engaged as she was in her ruminations that the smell of death lingered around her like an overpowering perfume.

Her husband's scent.

"And what has my angel captivated on this lovely autumn morning?" asked he, those thin, bony fingers drawing possessively round her shoulders. He laughed when he felt her bristle. "Ah, why so fearful, my dear? Has your own husband, whom you love above all else, even that of music itself, frightened you so?"

She glanced up from the paper, a worried look crossing her features. She considered him, that black mask of his mercifully absent from his face, as the faint traces of a smile curved around those emaciated lips, moulding it into an almost skeletal grin. She shook her head at the childish display he afforded her, chagrined by his amusement. "You startled me, Erik! You honestly made me believe that horrid man was here for a moment." She sighed, and looked again at the paper, her expression vague, half-guarded. "He _is_ rather dreadful."

"What man?" enquired her husband, his hands falling abruptly from her shoulders. He raised a thinning eyebrow, and frowned at her continued silence. "This vow of silence of yours is not becoming of you—no, indeed, especially not for that voice I made so hard to perfect. You are still unwilling to speak? Oh, my dear Christine, be assured: there is no one to hear our discourse, since we are rather remiss in any servants—to which you and I both agreed upon our required privacy in such matters, certainly—for our most humble household, and who might, therefore, be lurking about. So, as I might again enquire: what man would be here, other than your Erik?" He eyed her, curiously, before pouring himself a cup of tea.

Christine hesitated, silently considering her answer. She gingerly accepted her teacup—that he had refilled without her notice—before finding her voice. "I came across reading something quite horrible this morning, Erik. I fear I cannot even place it into words." She then relinquished the object that had distressed her so, and noted his curious expression. "Is it not a disastrous thing, to have happened?" she questioned when she saw him finish reading, her tone genuinely compassionate.

Saying nothing in response Erik only looked up, as if considering her words, before setting the newspaper aside in apparent disinterest. He retained his silence as he drank his tea, the morning sunlight which poured through the window bathing him in a study of deep and impenetrable thought—a veritable thinker, cast in human form—that only personified his silent musings.

"It is not so terrible, as I imagine it _could_ have been," he answered, almost cryptically. He noticed Christine shudder, though he disregarded it. "Oh, this is nothing to be concerned over. After all, he merely slit her throat and cut at her abdomen, as well as other portions of her body. He could have done _more_, my angel. Much, much more, I daresay…" Erik responded, in means of comforting her.

His _angel_, however, was far from comforted. For in the many years of her marriage to him, his callous regard for others still shocked her at times. Christine set down her teacup, resolution etched on that seraphic countenance. She would not allow him to escape from expressing at least a hint of compassion, not this time. "Erik, you, of all people, must feel some means of sympathy for this poor woman's death. She undoubtedly suffered so much in her life. We should at least feel _something_ for her passing."

The former Opera ghost gave her a look which unnerved her, that unmoved expression dulled by cold indifference. "Erik feels nothing. Erik cannot feel for those whom he knows not. Erik only feels for his Christine, and _that_ is enough."

But it was not enough—not for _his_ Christine. "And if I had been in this woman's place instead?" she countered bravely, if not foolishly. "Would you have felt anything if I had suffered a fate, similar to hers? If you do feel for me, then is it not enough, that he did as much to _her_?" she pressed, those brilliant blue eyes haunted by some dark phantom, whose face she could not perceive in the looming stillness of her thoughts. She saw him flinch at her remark.

"Of course Erik would _feel_!" he nearly shouted, rising from his seat. "Erik's heart is not one of stone, Christine." He turned away from her then, staggering from the table, his thoughts in turmoil, almost shattered by the course of their discussion. Dear God, why could she not understand that he did not feel—_could not feel_—for those who would never feel anything for him? Surely she would understand if she knew…

But he cast aside the possibility when he returned to her side, like the loyal dog he was, kneeling as he had when she had removed his mask for the first time. "Erik is…sorry…so sorry if he has upset his Christine," he responded brokenly, before kissing the hem of her skirt.

And it was enough. Christine's resolve had broken, when she realised just how much she had injured him. She silently reproached herself. When would she ever learn to keep her tongue in check, especially when his moods changed so abruptly? Erik's conscious state was always a precarious thing when addled: easily unhinged and not without consequence.

Sighing in regret, Christine's hands fell about his face, caressing those sallow cheeks, before lingering near those sunken eye sockets. Her fingers brushed through the soft wisps of his thinning hair, and she kissed his forehead. "There is nothing for which you must be sorry," she said gently. "It is completely my fault, as I am…merely anxious this morning." She cast him a firm look when he tried to argue the point of her being at fault. "No, Erik, it _is_ my fault," she gravely asserted. "The news of this fiend has upset me, just as I doubt there shall even be an investigation." She shook her head then, dismayed. She felt him move under her touch, those withered lips timidly kissing her fingers.

"You should not concern yourself over this sordid affair with the dead," he told her gently. "There is nothing you can do."

Christine inclined her head in resignation; as always, Erik was right: there was nothing she _could_ do, powerless and so far away from London as she was. But the reality of it nevertheless pained her. "I understand that," she returned quietly. "But it is no less upsetting that such things do happen in this world. Oh, Erik, what if he murders again? What if another unfortunate woman meets the same fate? What if he comes _here_? By all accounts, he cut her throat from _'almost ear to ear_,' and he had done so, without even being _seen_. I am afraid that he shall acquire a taste for it, if he hasn't already."

Erik met her troubled gaze, those perceptive yellow eyes piercing through that shadowed veil of her own, disjointed reasoning; his present upset, now, completely forgotten. "Murders are rather commonplace, Christine, especially in a dismal, godforsaken city as London," he said, rising from his lowly position on the floor, his beautiful voice, however, remaining cloaked in apathy.

Christine's frown deepened. "Do you believe that the police will attempt to find the murderer?" she asked quietly, hoping that her Erik—like any good husband—would reassure her that this murderer, this dark assailant, would be caught and, by the mercy of God, be brought to justice.

But Erik disappointed her, when he only shook that grim death's head. "There is little to be done, in the manner of finding the one responsible, my dear. The police assigned this duty are rather poor in their means in hunting down a petty _thief_, let alone a _murderer_." He had the audacity to scoff, and he glowered at the paper's headline. "I even doubt that they shall trouble themselves, in finding this fellow. As those placed in such an unfortunate position as this woman, in particular, my dear Christine, are forgotten with the evening's paper. Her grave will probably not even be given the common courtesy in being marked, much less having a plaque commemorating her name to memory. Perhaps in a century, someone will remember her…though not now," he said, before relinquishing the paper to Christine's hand.

She accepted it, albeit reluctantly; that tender expression, though, full of sadness. "It is unfortunate, this man's cruelty," she muttered, her gaze locking with her husband's, those brilliant yellow eyes watching, almost urging her to speak; and Christine gave in to him, unable to deny that she, if reluctant in her own uncertainties, _wanted_ to speak. She took one of his hands in hers. She looked down at it, admiring the mastered beauty which derived from those deft fingers—a beauty so often illustrated upon her own skin—before looking once more at the man she had married. "Is there nothing, which can be done to prevent another murder, Erik?" she asked, fearfully, hoping yet again.

But again, her beloved Angel of Music had only disappointed her. Taking the article in his other hand, Erik folded it, before placing it in the inner linings of his waistcoat. He looked at her, that expression firm, resolute, that captive hand, however, remaining devotedly in hers. "I find it best not to concern yourself with this nonsense, Christine," he said, after a long moment. "For this shameful blot of humanity belongs to those of a tarnished Londinium—not for those of beauty, and certainly not for Erik, _or_ his Christine." His deadpanned stare implied that he would say no more on the matter; and Christine complied, willingly, finding that she, like her husband, wished to pursue a less macabre subject over breakfast—especially since the detailed horrors of the murder had already taken much of her appetite.

They spoke of the latest performances at the Opera for the rest of the morning instead.

…

**Author's Note: Just a few, important notes, the names and phrases in **_**italics**_** are from actual newspapers, which published articles concerning Jack and his victims around the time of the murders. In this story, the papers' names shall be mentioned along with the articles, so as not to cause any unnecessary confusion. I truly believe the details in the articles speak for themselves, and are far better than any shoddy attempt I could make to describe the crime scenes. I can only make the suggestion for those interested to read the articles; the really are, quite horrific. Please also note that, where I describe the murders, the details/photographs/illustrations in the actual articles are not for the faint of heart. If any of you are squeamish, like I am, please try to refrain from reading those specific parts of the story. They are going to become rather graphic as this story progresses.**

**On a similar note, this story is going to be very, very dark. There is romance, surely, between Erik and Christine, but their love is not the main focus here; it is something else entirely. I daresay it is even hinted in this first chapter. As such, this story will remain strictly Leroux, with the exception of Christine's appearance. For me, Christine is going to ever remain a brunette. I blame it on seeing the animated film when I was five. But, other than that, those of us who adore Leroux can rejoice; the siren will indeed be mentioned! ;)**

**And lest I forget, on a historical note, Londinium, which Erik mentions at the end is the old Roman name for London. In the time of the Icenian warrior Queen Boudicca,** **Londinium was burned, and was pretty much razed to the ground. Hence, Erik's acerbic reference to it. **

**But truly, I do hope that everyone enjoys what I have so far of it; it will certainly be a lot more complex as the story unfolds. I also intend for this to be comprised into five parts, as Erik and Christine come to terms with the past, present, as well as the notion of what it is to be considered **_**human**_**. This is going to be a dark story with very dark themes of cruelty and the inhumanity of mankind. And yet, this story will be one, I feel, will reflect elements of hope found in **_**Idle Recollections**_**, as well as **_**A Moment's Absolution**_**. For in spite of how evil mankind can be, there are always those who abstain from that ever-tempting darkness.**

**January 12****th****, 2012: I've re-edited this chapter again. Hopefully, I've caught everything this time around.**


	2. Part II: The Rising Action

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

_One Week Later, 11th September_

The morning began as any other. Warm. Pleasant. A touch of the seemingly endless, idyllic pedestrian life in which many vied to make for their own. It had been a life ultimately achieved by a single choice made by the turning of a brass scorpion; and was, therefore, one, Christine realised, not to be taken for granted.

For in the seven years she had been wed to a man, who remained as much the enigmatic genius she had known in her days at the Opera, had she also come to understanding both the pains and pleasures accompanied with marriage.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows of the parlour, its brilliant orange rays brightening the light-green walls, enhancing their simple, flat colouring to that of fresh mint. The dark-green draperies counterposed with the walls and wainscoting, as well as the light they failed to obstruct. Christine only smiled at the conflicting display, knowing well that it was her husband who had chosen the draperies, for such had been his preference, just as it had been in the house by the lake.

He wanted to live like everyone else; and had even told her as much, the morning after they had awoken in the dark expanse of his coffin. He hadn't sealed them inside for eternity, merely for a few hours' respite, since it was with the coming of a new day that he wanted to make good on his promise to again join the world above, and to live in a house where sunlight, not darkness, penetrated its translucent glass panes.

However, his well-meaning intention to join the rest of humanity, as it were, had not been fulfilled overnight. They had departed from the house by the lake almost a year later—something of which Christine adamantly refused to think upon—since Erik had been prompted by more than simply his desire to leave a life of twenty years underground to ensure that promise. He wanted that which he'd long been denied: an equal place among his fellow men. Though most of all, he wanted to have a wife like everyone else. _It was why he chose a home for us in a modestly fashionable district of Paris—near where an opera house once stood!_

She almost flushed at the memory of his showing her their new home, and what had transpired after revealing their new _music_ _room_ to her.

Of course, for such a home that boasted two pianos, a harp, and every piece of furniture other well-respected women in the district were expected to have, he would have no less than the best his ill-gotten gains could afford, as he, after their marriage, decided they move into what he deemed _"A home in which normal people reside."_ She hadn't questioned his decision on the matter, knowing that she agreed with him wholeheartedly, and would therefore live in a manner of his choosing.

Long without a cook, she had managed the duty of making their breakfast herself, and attended to any other wifely duty designated her rôle as a true, living bride. Christine did not mind her matronly position; she rather preferred managing everything herself, than to allow another see to her obligations for her. She hesitated at the consideration, the empty teacup in her hand half-suspended in thought. She had never been comfortable in the short time she had stayed at Raoul's country manor in Rouen. Nor had she enjoyed the lavish fruits his newly bequeathed title had afforded her. She had only been happy in the knowledge that her beloved Mamma Valérius had benefited from residing with those who could see to her every need or care.

It had been a great comfort to Christine, since she had never seen her surrogate mother so happy—not since her own father's death. But now that her Mamma was dead—the knowledge of it coming in the form of a letter, from the north-bound shores of a distant Sweden—she did not lament those few, precious weeks she had spent at Raoul's estate.

A smile came to her lips, when she distantly recalled her husband's irritation. Erik had raged over the audacity of "that boy" having sent her a letter, though acknowledged—albeit grudgingly—the sincerity in the nobleman's intent, since Raoul had abandoned his own livelihood and happiness, in order to preserve an old, dying woman's last wish. He had remained in a country, foreign to his own tongue and customs, much less failed to obliged him in his practising of the Catholic faith.

Christine shook her head at the thought, for such had been the same for her and her father, when journeying to a foreign land. Those of a Northern faith were not so openly welcomed in their dissenting views, anti-liturgical, heretical, excommunicated in the sight of God, Protestant, as they had so often been deemed. For no matter her convictions, her own faith, traitorous as it had once been considered in the glorious reign of the Sun King, opposed that of her childhood friend's.

It would always be a barrier between them; for even without Philippe's dissension on his brother's interest in marrying a commoner—a _Protestant_ commoner, at that—Christine would've fallen prey to the scrutiny of the high-born French aristocracy. Even Raoul's sisters, with whom she had met only briefly, were also opposed to the possibility in having a overly superstitious sister-in-law; whereas Erik, whose own beliefs had always been one of questionable origins, and had led Christine to suspect that he had never been properly baptised by parents of whom she believed to be a very observant, very _Catholic_ mother and father, had never once challenged her _superstitious_ nature as Raoul had. If she wanted to believe in angels, or even that of fairies, then he wouldn't discourage her, no matter his being inherently part of an opposing doctrine.

Though in spite of her own misgivings, Raoul had suffered the same affliction as she: he had lived as a relative foreigner: both unwanted and unwillingly tolerated among a superstitious people, wary of those who, they believed, permeated the papist taint of Rome. He had refrained from mentioning the truth of such in his letter, of course, as he remained the devoted friend and comforter Christine knew him to be.

"_She died peacefully in her sleep,"_ he'd confided to her about Mamma Valérius in a carefully, handwritten letter, whilst he expressed that the funeral itself, though sparse of mourners in attendance, had been no less than beautiful. Christine could only smile at the memory his letter imposed. He had even seen to the arrangements, of having her Mamma buried on a hill overlooking the sea, personally. Christine had only lamented, in a return letter—which Erik had grudgingly allowed her to write, and one that demanded to read before she sent it—that she regretted having missed it.

In truth, she had no knowledge of Mamma Valérius' passing as it had, most unfortunately, been months since the burial before Raoul had found an Erik and Christine de Maricourt—a seemingly normal, married, happy couple—who had made their residence in the bourgeoisie district of the city—at 13 rue Lepelltier, to be more precise—that one would have to be mad to think them any different from any other of the city's denizens. Erik had been outraged upon seeing the count's letter, considering that Raoul had penned it in such a way that addressed Christine in a most childishly informal manner.

"_To his dear Little Lotte indeed! Ah, if only he were _here_, standing before his "__dear__ Little Lotte," with her Erik at her side...Oh, what Erik would _do_ to that boy__,"_ Erik had seethed in a livid huff, before abandoning both the letter and a very contrite Christine for the solace of his music.

Christine sighed at the recollection of Erik's anger, as she recalled herself having stared after his retreating figure before looking to the unopened letter in her hand. A frown had pierced her brow; for whilst Erik had not forbidden her the liberty in reading Raoul's correspondence, the strident sounds evoked from his piano in the adjacent room had only emphasised his displeasure. _And yet, I read it,_ _in spite of his discontent_, Christine thought in defence of her curiosity, where she had thus discovered the tragedy that lay within its vellum folds.

She shook her head; the unbidden memory of her friend's words had become a wound in which would never fully heal in her heart. Her beloved Mamma had died, and there was nothing she could do to subvert the grief which followed. She even doubted that _The Resurrection of Lazarus—_played by Erik's masterful hand—could bring that wondrous, maternal soul back from the dismal land of the dead, to walk among the world of the living once more, and comforted the orphaned daughter she'd left behind.

Her tears had fallen while Erik's music lingered in the phantom shadows surrounding her. A strangled sob escaped from her, the tears continuing to fall, and her head falling forward in silent despair. A single cry of anguish had left her, where, before she could comprehend the consequences of her actions, had blindly entered her husband's domain.

She'd listened to his music for a moment, the emotions emitted with each keystroke bringing forth a new application of pain, his own sorrow intertwining with hers. She'd closed her eyes then, allowing the tears to cascade down her ivory cheeks, those hidden, azure eyes red-rimmed by grief.

She'd lingered in the doorway for a moment, considering, debating with herself before moving forward as she found herself standing behind him. She'd hesitated in making her presence known to him, before allowing her hands to do so for her; and yet, unlike the unmasking from long ago, she'd instead touched a cheek once obscured by a mask, caressing it in a manner of a true living wife would do for her loving husband. She had even whispered his name before kissing him.

The music had ceased then, and that unmasked face turned as its bearer saw that haunted look that troubled his beloved, and knew. For no matter his ire in the boy's persistence to remain in contact with his beautiful Christine, his anger had subsided the moment he realised the reason for such a correspondence, as Christine's tears only nullified the resentment he felt towards his former rival.

He had comforted her where Raoul was unable, the security she found in his embrace calming her, as the deep, seraphic tones of his voice lulled her into an enchanted slumber where death was mercifully absent; for while she slept in the comfort of their marriage bed, Erik had remained silent, deep-entrenched in thought. The loss of one so close to his wife had affected him more than he should've wanted, her pain indelibly his to bear. He had closed his eyes then, those empty black sockets shrouded in dark purpose, a silent resolution having yet to be uttered in the most poignant of elegies.

He had sung a requiem mass for Christine's surrogate mother that night, as his song echoed to those northernmost shores and beyond the world of the living, to the glorious realm of the dead where the one dedicated its sombre hymn undoubtedly heard it.

_Just as I awoke to that most kind and sincere gesture_, thought Christine absently, her present thoughts of the woman she considered a mother lying cold and peaceful in a faraway grave bringing a sense of acceptance to her latent despair. She heartened at the thought of the heavenly fate her guardian of so many years had indubitably received, for Mamma Valérius had been a good and virtuous woman; and though she'd died in the absence of those whom she had loved most in life, she hadn't died alone—not like the Unfortunate, who'd died in the darkness at the cold hand of a murderer.

Erik hadn't sung a requiem mass for the departed, his indifference to the woman's fate a crude contradiction to the compassion he'd extended to Mamma Valérius. He hadn't even mentioned it after that morning, as if forgetting the matter entirely.

Christine frowned at his apathetic view of the world. She didn't fault him for his convictions, certainly. She could not. For what little compassion he had was derived from a world that had shown him precious little; and whether or not he sympathised for those whose names he knew not, Christine realised that Erik, despite many his human faults, made her not regret loving him. Nor she did not regret a life she could've had with another, just as she never regretted the one of whom she had chosen to spend it. _Even if he fails to understand why I pity this unfortunate woman so_, she thought, a little sadly.

A knock at the door made her jump, the teacup, which she held, almost falling to the floor.

"Mme. de Maricourt? Mme. de Maricourt, are you at home?" a familiar voice called from the other side of the door.

Christine smiled, delighted that Pierre, the boy who brought Erik's collection of newspapers every morning, was there. Setting the teacup down, she moved to open the door, heartened to find the child waiting patiently for her on the steps. She'd been most anxious, in reading the day's events, just as she was gladdened to see the smiling face of Pierre—a boy, whom she could never claim as her own—standing there, with half of his father's papers in his arms.

He was such a charming boy, with one of his father's old hats and his light brown coat, which was a little long on his wiry frame, and smiling face. A slight frown came to her otherwise glowing countenance as she set the thought of what she had given up for Erik aside. Nevertheless, she regained her composure, just as a brilliant smile was given to the boy. Her eyes brightened when she caught a slight blush come across that small sweep of freckles which lay across his nose.

"Madame," he responded in shy acknowledgment, before relinquishing the weighty parcel to her kindly awaiting hand.

Another smile was granted the boy, whose deepening flush matched that of his bright-red hair. Christine's eyes met his hazel-eye stare. "Thank you, Pierre," she said, and then handed him his usual fee, of which he gladly accepted with his green-mittened hands. Christine took in his scarf-covered chin and flushed features, the day a particularly chilly one for one so young to be about. Without another thought, she bade to him wait for her before returning to the kitchen and wrapping some of her finest confections in a thin white handkerchief.

She returned just as abruptly, and handed the boy the handkerchief. "Now, you mustn't allow this to spoil your dinner. I doubt even your mother would approve of that," she teasingly warned. "And do be sure to share them with your sisters. Otherwise, they may become quite as cross with you, especially since they're filled with strawberry filling."

The boy eagerly nodded at the promise of strawberries, graciously accepting the makeshift bundle of confections, as strawberries were a rare treat indeed, for a poor boy and his four sisters. He granted Christine one, last appreciative smile.

"Thank you, Mme. de Maricourt. And…will you give my respects to M. de Maricourt, as well?" he asked, even though he had never seen his father's elusive patron in person. It was always prudent, however, to show appreciation for one's continued patronage, he believed. And so he gave Christine his best impression of sincerity, praying that he never meet M. de Maricourt in person; for God help him, should he indeed ever cross paths with that of her husband.

As if sensing his thoughts, Christine gave him another enchanting smile. "I shall be certain to tell him, Pierre," she duly promised him, her voice losing only a semblance of its warmth. "Now, you had better go, before those cakes grow cold with this chill! And be sure to give my best to your mother, will you? I am glad to know she is doing well, along with your new baby sister."

The boy nodded his head again, heartened by such kindness and concern, though he hesitated to leave. Christine looked at him, curiously, wondering the cause for his hesitation. "Is something the matter, Pierre?" she enquired, hoping to somehow comfort him.

But the boy shook his head. "It's nothing, madame, truly," he replied, almost diffidently. "It's just…I wouldn't read those London papers today, is all. There are some very terrible things written in them. And it's not really for a lady to be reading, as my papa would say."

He said nothing more, as he tipped his hat, bid her "good day," and turned.

Christine watched him as he descended down the steps and intermingled with those in passing before disappearing into the crowd completely. She watched a multitude of people—men and women, dressed in an array of business suits and dress skirts—pass by who failed to notice her simply standing there, their eyes obviously looking ahead to that which heralded their haste. "Though all the same," she said, quietly to herself, her face a beautiful mask of half-construed thought, "I cannot help but wonder what he meant by not reading…"

She watched those in passing for a moment longer, silent in her thoughts, as she returned to the warming comfort of the kitchen. She finished preparing breakfast, and patiently awaited her husband who, doubtless it was, adhered to composing his latest composition instead of seeing to his need for sustenance. She almost laughed at the thought of it, for Erik never ceased to surprise her, just as she never failed to astound him on occasion. She had even done so in the privacy of their bedroom last night, when she taught him the true range of her voice, and the excitement which carried it. She raised a teacup, filled with warm chamomile tea, to her lips, and smiled.

For whilst Erik's music drifted in the background of her thoughts, her placid expression did not change when she, out of that damning curiosity of hers, picked up a newspaper, and came to read what lay within its dreaded columns. Her smile faded, her pallor becoming even more pronounced as that old, crocodile fear that she had only felt a week previous, drew again down her spine.

She wanted to turn away from the sight before her, just as the headline of _The London Times_ made her understand Pierre's warning all too late. She closed her eyes, the words already imprinted in her thoughts: _The Whitechapel Murders_.

Her eyes reluctantly opened, before narrowing in dismay. Another murder had been committed—another murder, only much worse than the one previous…

She had already read some of the inquests concerning the first murder, as well as previous reports to their being adjourned. The crude details found in the _London_ _Times_ described Mary Ann Nichol's torn body in almost hideously graphic detail, as such had been a dark testament to a man who preyed upon those weaker than he. Christine frowned in thought, and she pulled another paper—the _Illustrated Police News_ now, unfortunately, a few days old from its original printing—from the small mound before her.

There she read of the inquest she had read previously, as Annie Chapman, whose name and identity then unknown, was also mentioned. Christine shuddered when she read the details of the woman's murder, from which the _London Times_ had only alluded to, as the article from the _Illustrated Police News_ concerning the details of the first murder made her quiver in fear; where, for that of a split second she drew silent in her breathing, her eyes consumed by the ghastly vision before her, those soft blue eyes of midnight blindly darting over the photographic nightmare that resonated from a distant black shore.

The murder had been far worse from what the papers had first ascribed it: the condition of the throat, though mentioned in very similar descriptions in the _London Times _and the_ Star_, were forbiddingly accentuated in graphic detail—the dark head attached to it barely hanging by a thread. An appalling series of jagged cuts and deeply inlayed puncture wounds seared through the serrated flesh of the stomach and abdominal cavity, exposing all that lay within to the elements, as the victim's blood only emphasised the horridity of the act itself.

It was a beautiful rendition of the macabre: both ghoulish and sinister in its overall representation, as the hand which contrived it was stained with the heavy crimson drops of murder. No one had taken credit for such a masterpiece, since the creator of such had, at present, remained anonymous. And a certainty it was that many had forthrightly called him mad, as this butcher's work had been done, by none other than a madman—a madman with a very sharp knife—or rather, a razor, as the _Illustrated Police News_ surmised.

Unable to read any more, Christine shuffled the dreadful article to the bottom of the stack, the _London Times_ again before her. And, whereas before, she barely noticed Erik enter the parlour, so immersed she was in her own dark musings, the teacup's cooling drink lying slack in a pale, white hand. She almost dropped it when she felt a pair of hands come round her neck, their cold touch very much the ill-fortuned caress of Death himself, dark and sinister and inexplicably knowing of the world beyond this one.

"Erik," she drew out in a haunted whisper, her eyes never leaving the printed nightmare before her.

The hands around her throat ceased in their gentility before falling away completely. She did not see the worry interlaced in the darkness of those golden eyes. Nor did she see his gaze fall to the article in her hands. Her attention remained primarily on the small stack of assorted newspapers whose pages were filled with same, gruesome account, as another Unfortunate, this time by the name of Annie Chapman—or 'Dark Annie', as most in her acquaintance were wont to call her—had died in a similar fashion as the one before her. _Only this time_, thought Christine, a little solemnly, _it is far worse. All of those cuts on her abdomen and body_…

It was enough to make her vomit. She could scarcely hold down her tea, let alone have the will to eat anything.

"Christine," she heard Erik utter her name, and almost flinched in shame at the concern that it held. _For now, as ever, he worries over my happiness and my love for him_. Her eyes darkened at the thought. She could not allow him to suffer with her silence, just as _she_ could not be the source of _his_ pain. He had almost already died of _love_ for her, and she was hard-pressed to revisit that absurd possibility.

Unable to bear his concern a moment longer, she schooled her anguished look into one of collected certainty. "There has been another murder," she said at last. She did not look up to meet his gaze, only stared through those lifeless blue eyes, to the source that caused her so much pain. "Many suspect it the same person."

"Indeed," replied her husband noncommittally, before taking the paper away from her grasp. Without having a need to examine the others—for he knew they were very much the same as the one that he presently held—he read from the very words that had upset his angel so. He continued to read, though he soon found himself growing further and further irritated by the disgusting drivel presented in this _horror show_. For had he worn a mask, it would have scarcely concealed the scowl that his twisted features presently bore, just as the feral growl he emitted would have remained blissfully silent, had his more civilised side not expressed his repulsion.

"This is intolerable—an absolute affront to the written word!" he muttered, before throwing the paper on the table. "I cannot imagine how people find any particular delight in reading such rubbish! Of course, I should expect no less from the English; they are inferiorly dull, when it comes to what little creativity they so unfortunately possess. They're almost as bad as those belligerent Americans," he scoffed, crossing his arms in apparent disgust. "And, apparently, they have nothing better to do with their time, than to report these shameful murders, as if they are some part of an occasion given rise for ceremony? And who, exactly, is this _Leather Apron_?"

Christine looked up, finally meeting his gaze. "He is a Jewish bootmaker, an immigrant from Poland. Many suspect that he is responsible for the murders."

"Because he is Jewish, how very _English_ of his discreditors," Erik dryly intoned, scoffing at the absurdity of it. "Of course, they undoubtedly believe that no _Englishman_ could ever commit such a godless act, even when they force those living there into poverty and despair. Oh, Erik has _seen_ the East End, in all its inglorious splendour. Indeed, Erik has seen _much_." He glowered at the private recollection, unaware of Christine's questioning gaze, before continuing. "And soon enough, most of these mindless fools shall come to suspect their own Crown Prince, or even the Queen's personal physician. Pay no heed to their idiocy, Christine," he warned her in kind, "for had you believed what was said of me by those ballet rats, then you wouldn't have believed in your Angel of Music. And then where would Erik be? Quite alone in that dark hole he once called a home, I daresay!"

He laughed when he caught her smile, that beautiful, melodic voice allaying her present fears. He took her teacup and poured her some more tea, the newspapers and the horrors that lay within them forgotten along with those moving from without, making their way in passing, amid the traffic and the blustery wind of an autumn morning.

…

**Author's Note: Here is part two of five. I apologise for taking so long to post this, and if there are any grammatical errors. I looked over this some time ago, so I'm not for sure if I've gotten everything. If not, I shall be sure to correct it. And hopefully, since this story is very short, I can get this finished soon.**

**On a historical note, everything regarding the murders—from the details of the victims to their suspects—should be accurate. I've done quite a bit of research on the murders, since I sincerely wish to remain true to history, even though this story is, still, very much a fictional take on London/Paris 1888. Also, too, Erik's comments at the end concerning the suspects and the prejudice derived from their origins, occupations, spiritual beliefs, etc. is, very unfortunately, true. Apparently, people were xenophobic as hell back then—as some were most especially, all too glad, to point the finger at someone whom they found strange or out of the ordinary. I decided to have Erik say what was generally expressed at that time, 'That no Englishman could have done this' about the murders, since Erik himself is no Englishman, and does not seem to exert any prejudices against people—perhaps only with the exception of Raoul, of course. But then, Raoul isn't an Englishman, either…**

**But really, there is a reason for why Erik is not so fond of the English. I'll say no more, but I suggest keeping such in mind. (Hint! Hint!)**

**And also, I really want to thank everyone for reading/reviewing. Truly, your thoughts and comments mean so much! Thanks again! :)**

**Well, until Chapter Three!**

— **Kittie**


	3. Part III: The Climax

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

_Three weeks later, 2__nd__ October_

The streets of Paris were relatively calm, sedate, its colourful denizens much unlike those whose public outcry for justice had been stirred into a maddened frenzy in a distant, yet all too real, London. For unlike its French counterpart, the panicked state of London-town—particularly in its eastern portion—had elevated to a heightened crescendo, as news of the previous day's events had drawn nothing short of pandemonium in its ever-winding streets. The murderer, now deemed Jack the Ripper by the papers, had struck again.

Of course, the news of this newly christened moniker, and the crude insinuation behind it, had originated from a postcard and a series of disturbing letters sent to London's Central News Agency. The unsettling greeting of the 'Dear Boss' letter, as it had been called, had drawn in particular both fascination and disgust from those who read it; where, with everything from threatening to sever and take the next victim's ears as some sort of primitive trophy, to the blatant taunting of the law, had only incensed the public's outcry for justice.

For indeed, the grisly terrors which had been visited upon those in London had reached Paris within a matter of hours, just as they had, in turn, fallen upon the de Maricourt household like a dreary overcast the following morning. Christine inwardly shuddered at the memory of reading the coroner's report of Annie Chapman and her disembowelled corpse, having seen the account in the news herself, whilst the author of the letter and postcard—if such were indeed penned by the same hand; she had her own misgivings as to their authenticity—was truly this murderer, this _Jack_ _the_ _Ripper_. She shook her head at the possibility, unwelcoming and ghastly as it was. The penmanship was barely legible, albeit its meaning was, rather effectively, sharp and to the point. As to the letters themselves, at first glance, looked as to have been written in actual blood.

The sight of them had greatly disturbed her; the spiralling red ink reminding her of the ink penned for the just-as-equally-disturbing composition of Erik's _Don Juan Triumphant_. It had been wise, perhaps, to withhold the knowledge of it from her husband, knowing that Erik would not approve of the comparison, should he learn of her reading such rubbish, as he had deemed the London papers, since his offence of the injury inflicted on his _Don Juan_—which had remained in the catacombs of the Opera, and would ever remain there as far as its creator was concerned—nevertheless questioned his artistic capability. He would not appreciate the similarity, in being compared to a madman who murdered prostitutes, even if he had—as Christine secretly questioned, even now—been the cause of death for so many…including women who had fallen into such circumstances as the selling of their bodies.

Troubled by the likelihood, Christine could only sigh upon the matter. Her poor Erik had suffered most cruelly throughout much of his life. As there were times, where even now, that he was sometimes unsure of the life in which he presently shared with her; for even though he had attained a sense of normalcy from among those of whom he had once distanced himself, he could never, completely, join his fellow man, in the commonalities of simply existing. Whereas most people, however unsurprisingly, rarely questioned him over his eccentric mannerisms, since most rarely ever saw the walking anomaly that Christine de Maricourt had married.

No one knew of her maiden name, let alone surmised her estranged friendship with the long absent Comte de Chagny, who was said to live in some isolated manor in Norway. Nor were they aware of her former association with the Opera, and the many horrors which had transpired there several years before. Many had only assumed her a simple young woman with simple desires, ignorant of the voice concealed underneath that equally simple veneer. She was a fixture in society—a paragon among aspiring young women—who was often rumoured to be a great beauty without equal. She could go into the city without drawing too much attention to herself—beauty notwithstanding—and so be the wife of a most proud and unconventional husband. She had accommodated Erik in this. His only link to that much-coveted acceptance of humanity had been through her alone.

_His_ _living_ _wife_.

Christine sobered at the remembrance of it. For although she heartened at the thought of Erik's most loving endearment of her being his living wife, her continued state was unlike the Ripper's victims, who were quite dead to their husbands and paramours. She grimaced at the truth of it, dissuaded as she had been to read this morning's edition, when Pierre had the decency to warn her, "That no good would come of it," should she learn of what lay within its carefully folded interior. Curiosity, however, had gotten the better of her, as Christine had not heeded the boy's advice.

_The Daily Telegraph_ had denoted that which had taken place as nothing but "Savage butchery and mutilation" and a "Public terror" among the "Horror stricken" citizens of London.

It was known as the Double Event—a ghastly duet, where two women met their ends by the sharp edge of a knife. It was said that the first of the night's victims had feared herself in becoming prey for the Ripper, when, out of desperation, tried to acquire money for a night's lodging. Though her would-be benefactor, who had undoubtedly offered the paltry few pence needed for a provisional refuge if she provided her services, naturally, had another proposition entirely: one more sinister than a simple, cheap night's tumble in the sinful pleasures of the flesh with the Swedish immigrant. Undoubtedly he'd wanted more than a few soft-spoken sighs and a dulled, half-drunken utterance of his name. He'd wanted more than simply being in the unbidden arms of a prostitute. He'd wanted blood. As that, in and of itself, was the only thing he'd gotten out of 'Long Liz' Stride.

And he would have gotten more—of that, Christine was certain—if had he not been so unduly interrupted in his work. The unforeseen circumstance of another coming upon him had doubtlessly compelled him to leave his present quarry, a mere grocer, as the blood from that delicate white throat spilled unto the darkened cobblestones of Berner Street.

Of course, the presence of a most terrible and unfortunate murder was not solely restricted to Berner Street alone, where that of a second life, more violent in its taking of it, descended upon the holy strictures of Mitre Square.

Death had descended upon the streets, before the House of the Living God, the white marbled purity a divine contrast to the decay which plagued the internal souls of man from without. For where the pillars representing love and mercy stood, open to those which forsook salvation from within, the embodiments of angels closed their sculpted eyes as a demon, which could not be bound, created a hell of his own before the sanctified edifice that had been their centuries-long sanctuary for the troubled and the lost. It would only later be lamented by many that, if only those who traversed so closely to that hallowed threshold, to the safety that lay within, had been sought out that night. If only…

Albeit those who lamented that possibility, who both pitied and wanted justice for the Unfortunates they had scarcely before considered, were not compelled to make that choice, however, as those deemed unfortunate, who believed they could not choose any better, merely walked the paths of the righteous to conduct an old, worldly trade, which had no place for that which dwelled within. As Catherine Eddowes, like many, who shared in her circumstances, walked around the full length of the church, so that she might avoid being arrested for 'loitering', while she managed her business with one from whom she would later regret. Her saviour of that night had been far from the angel he presented himself to be—a devil with a black heart. Or perhaps he had no heart at all, considering the cruelty he'd inflicted upon his hapless victims.

The details of the second murder left Christine in a state of irrepressible shock, so much so that she could not bear to read of it again. It had been worse than all of the other murders combined. For where there had once been a face that carried a beauty all of its own, only the sad remnants of it had remained. A sequence of several deep gashes had maligned those ruddy, alcohol-blemished cheeks, an ear partially removed, a small portion of the nose found amidst the rags of her meagre blouse. She had shared many of the same qualities in her death as Annie Chapman: the bodies of each cut open, their vital organs and entrails exposed, the uterus—which defined the power of their womanhood—missing.

Christine shook her head. Most would have found the sight the ungodly work of a monster, though, in reality, even they must've realised it to be a man. _But what kind of man?_ Christine asked herself, those azure eyes piercing the crude illustrations of the Ripper's victims. She stared at them, her eyes lingering over of the black and white renderings, the overly emphasised tear between illustrations stressing the perversity of the artist's own intrigue of the murders. _As the murders intrigue many...including myself_.

Her face fell in soundless shame, for she _was_ intrigued, riveted by the evil fashioned into a single, living, breathing figure of humanity. It was a dark fascination with the obscene. She sighed again, disheartened by her interest. Her father would be appalled if he knew of it, Raoul as well.

_Of course, Raoul would undoubtedly fault Erik for my interest_, she thought mordantly. _But then, Erik has never encouraged my interest in such—quite the opposite, actually. _

She almost smiled. It was indeed a rather profane irony for a murderer—or rather, a former one, although Christine sometimes wondered about her husband's activities when he ventured the streets alone—to be discouraged by the work of another, for Erik was most critical of this faceless London monster that murdered in the night, and ran from justice like so common a thief. He had even expressed as much, on that single rare occasion when he'd given the murders a degree of considerable thought. He had likened the Ripper to a childish butcher, and then let the matter drop entirely as he changed the course of their discussion to something else entirely. It was a pity that she hadn't prompted him to say more; but she knew Erik's affability was temporary at best, and she hadn't the heart to press him into another argument. _Since he'd undoubtedly shut himself away with his music for days if I did_. The thought struck her as overly dramatic, though was true all the same. They'd once had an argument—she'd now forgotten the matter of its importance, since it had happened early on in their marriage—that had compelled him to lock himself away from her for a fortnight. It had been a dark and uncertain time for her, and she had no wish to repeat it, curiosity be damned.

And so it was amidst in her silent contemplations that Christine found herself once again in the sight of her husband. She caught his gaze, those yellow eyes questioning her prolonged silence, half-suspicious in their silent accusation as they lingered over the small pile of papers strewn chaotically about on the table.

"Christine," he began, but was silenced with a quick kiss to his lips.

"Good morning, my love," Christine whispered against one of his sallow cheeks. She smiled sweetly at him, before gathering the papers together and setting them to the side. She offered him a hot cup of tea, very nearly forcing it into his hands. "How are your compositions coming along? You must've been inspired; you were up all night with them. I am rather anxious to hear you sing it for me—once you are finished, of course," she continued on without preamble, bustling about the kitchen as she prepared breakfast.

Erik raised a thinning eyebrow at her willowy figure, drifting around their tiny kitchen like a kind of ghost that he'd once indulged himself in being at the Opera, but then accepted her peculiar greeting, as such was her custom, in distracting him from asking something she did not wish to discuss. Of course, the news from the world without did not appeal to him—not this morning, anyway—since the beauty of his Christine's smile absolved any irritation in her daily readings of a degenerate press. He accepted his tea in kind, and was inordinately pleased when Christine took her usual seat—at his side.

"The score could be better composed," he responded after a long, contemplative moment. "There is one segment, in particular, that needs to be attended before I'm content with it." He smiled then, those withered lips revealing a row of uneven, broken teeth. "Once it is finished, it shall be sung as a duet, since I wish for my Christine to join me in song. If it would please my Christine, that is?" His smile widened when he saw her place one of her hands over his.

"It would please your Christine greatly," she returned, flattered by his suggestion, completely disregarding what had been said in the papers. Perhaps Erik was right about the whole thing: it was all rather scandalous, really. A cheap form of entertainment made to appease both the macabre and the sick-minded, while making some pocket change along the way. She herself should've been appalled by the press' tact, should've been positively at a loss for the grotesque imagery that some journalists naturally derived when a new scrap of meat was thrown at them. They were little better than a pack of rabid dogs.

Shaking her head at the comparison, she drank her tea in silence as she felt her husband's eyes on her. She would not share the morning paper's details with Erik; he frowned upon anything that appeared to please the masses that paid the standard _franc_ to read the latest, including articles on the weather. In part, his disinterest reminded her of George Gissing's, whose criticism on the latest murders complimented Erik's own disgust, as the aforementioned man's social critiques of the English and their indecency in exploiting "human flesh" had proven just how mindless and how shameless they truly were. It had been a rather insightful barb, to curb his own countrymen's vast English pride. Though all the same, Christine had found the details printed about the Double Event even more disturbing, than what Raoul had related to her about the Persian's encounter with Erik's siren.

The admission, although a very reluctant one on Raoul's behalf, had been a grim reminder of what Erik had been; for Christine, in spite of her former naiveté of the world, was no fool. She knew very well that Erik and the siren were one in the same, albeit he had a tendency to disassociate himself with his other, ichthyoidal half. She never mentioned the siren to him; for fear that he would go off into one of his uncontrollable fits, as he referred to himself in the third-person.

She barely heard him say her name, so lost she was in her thoughts until the newspapers, which she'd kept poorly hidden from his sight, flashed like a flood of black and white paper lanterns in front of her. "Yes, Erik, you were saying something, my love?" she asked, flushing madly at him catching her unawares.

"Christine!" Erik hissed, clearly disgruntled by her inattention. He wondered about her mind at times, flighty and full of fancy as it usually was. "Your thoughts are elsewhere, I see. And I can very well understand _why_." He crushed the newspapers in his hands for good measure. "What have I told you about reading _these_ absurd accounts? You don't need to taint your pretty thoughts with this sensationalist rubbish."

Christine knew it would be wise to say nothing and simply agree with him, but she could not help herself. Not this time, anyhow. "But, Erik, these murders are placing people in an absolute panic. I can scarcely imagine what it must be for those who live where these murders are taking place, to walk the very streets where these women are falling prey to this mindless fiend. Can you even imagine what must be going through their minds, to have to walk the same streets at night as he?"

Erik said nothing in response, remaining deathly silent as he glanced down at the rumpled papers in his hands, and then to his beloved wife. "Oh, yes, Erik can imagine. He can imagine all too well," he said cryptically, before turning away from her and throwing the papers into the fireplace. He barely gave them a second glance, whereas Christine watched until they were nothing but cinders and ash.

But, even then, ingenious woman that she irrefutably was, refused to let the matter drop. "Even so," she broached, "I can only sympathise with those who have to suffer such a monster in their midst."

"You know nothing of monsters," Erik returned, that angelic voice tinged with a bitter sting. "Indeed, you know nothing of the darkness in which enshrouds those who must suffer it, in spite of desiring otherwise. I've kept you away from all of that, safe from the horrors that I've seen himself, and will not have my wife witness herself. No...her soul is much too rich, much too pure for the darkness Erik was forced to become."

She could only nod her head in agreement, unsettled when he became disassociated from himself. She felt a guilty stab at her conscience, since Erik had indeed kept her away from many of the horrors that she would've undoubtedly seen, had she not left the Opera. "Yes, Erik, you have kept me from such horrific sights," she conceded, knowing that she had to somehow allay his inner turmoil. The man she'd married could be so unpredictable at times, especially in his rage. He'd never hit her, but some of the furniture and vases, along with many of their other possessions, had felt his wrath at times, especially when she or someone from without had upset him. Even in this circumstance, she knew that she had to tread carefully.

Taking one of his hands in hers, she stepped forward, moving into a cold embrace as she felt him stiffen against her. She smiled in spite of his discomfort, and placed her ear against his chest, hearing a faint heartbeat. "You know of my curiosity," she whispered against him. "Just I know that it infuriates you that I can't simply be a good wife to you and just accept that which is best for me. But I _do_ love you, Erik, and I can only hope that you'll believe me when I say so." She felt him shift against her uncomfortably. Frowning at his sudden shift in temperament, she suddenly became concerned. "What is it? What is the matter?" she asked, her hands moving to touch the skeletal contours of his unmasked face.

But Erik declined her touch, turning away from her and her embrace entirely. He said nothing, the silence carving an ever-diverging gap between them, as a quarter-hour passed before Erik finally regained enough of his composure to speak. He did not look at her, but his words had no less come, albeit as disjointedly as his childish handwriting. "Erik knows that you'll ever be a curious child; he cannot break you of that, and has come to accept it, as any good husband should do. But, Christine must accept what Erik says of the world. He has been..._there_," he whispered the latter part, as if it were a dark, forbidden secret.

Christine's eyes widened in disbelief. "You've been to that part of London?"

Erik reluctantly nodded, still refusing to meet her gaze. "When Erik was but a boy," he answered, apparently lost in thought.

"But that must've been well over _forty_ _years_ _ago_," Christine posed incredulously. She could scarcely believe it; but knew that, deep down, it was true all the same. Her Erik, at one time, had been where the Ripper was currently making his deadly rounds, had undoubtedly seen the same horrors as those who had lived, long before now, with a murderer known by moniker after bloody moniker. It pained her to even consider Erik being there—as a child, no less! She knew that he had run away at a young age, had known that his mother was far from the loving dam that should've protected her son with the ferocity of a lioness. Somehow, though, he had found himself in London, an obscure shape of a puzzle piece that he'd thrown at the vast array he'd presented her over the years. Very few had fit into place, as she tried, with difficulty, to piece them together. She couldn't fathom where this piece, with its jagged edge, fit into his life, but she was bound to find out.

Setting the thought aside for the moment, she came to stand at his side, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. She met his gaze, her clear blue eyes meeting his haunting yellow ones. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him soundly on the mouth, kissed him before both were completely breathless.

Erik whispered her name, breathing in the scent of her. He regarded her quietly after a moment, his eyes once again fixed on her person, their breakfast completely forgotten. "Erik...needs to...compose," he intoned brokenly between words, although it was a poor attempt at suggesting otherwise.

Christine smiled, inordinately pleased by his insinuation nonetheless, accepting his offered hand as she allowed him to lead her past the music room, where his other _compositions_ lay, to their private chambers. For as far as Erik was concerned, _morning_ had _yet_ to begin, as Christine would undoubtedly find herself making their breakfast at suppertime; the ferocity in his gait as he hastily shut their bedroom door before placing her on their bed, combined with the look of desperation in his eyes—something, she only saw in those bleak moments when his past haunted him—compelled her to allow him to take comfort in any way he needed. For Erik was indeed a most surprising lover; the sights he'd seen and the books he'd read when he lived in some faraway foreign lands making him a master of an art expressed only through words and lavishly drawn sketches. She herself had only seen a few of them, before Erik had taken them from her, hiding them, lest she become _too_ curious.

She almost laughed when she felt her dressing gown give way, the morning and the events that she'd read forgotten entirely among the dimly-lit confines of their bedroom. Erik's voice filled her thoughts, dispelling the myriad of unanswered questions that she would have trouble remembering to ask him later.

They didn't leave their bedroom until well after supper.

...

**Author's Note: So sorry this chapter has taken me so long to write. I've just been rather lax in finishing it, sadly. I honestly had no idea how far I was going to go with it, either. :(**

**Anyway, some important things have happened in this particular chapter, as this is pretty much the climax of this five-part tale. The Double Event, also, oddly enough, had the most coverage/interest, since it was two murders instead of one. There has been some speculation, however, as to whether Liz Stride and Catherine Eddowes were actually related to the Ripper, since Liz Stride's murder did not resemble the others, which are attached to Jack the Ripper. Of course, there's also the fact that whoever murdered her had been interrupted, so it could've possibly been Jack the Ripper, who took out his rage and his frustration on Catherine Eddowes instead. I guess we'll never really know the truth, though.**

**And, yes, as for the ending segment of this chapter, yes, it **_**is**_** hinted that Erik is quite knowledgeable of the **_**Kama**__**Sutra**_**. XD I'd be surprised if he hadn't been aware of its existence. I also imagine that he would probably be rather, ah, thorough in his study of it, considering how precise he is about everything. But, yeah, that part of his life with Christine is something I leave completely open to interpretation—in this story, at least. I think **_**Idle Recollections on a Red Death**_** pretty much sums up the subtlety in this subsequent story. And now, I am going to turn my attention elsewhere, and stop blushing furiously behind the computer screen...**

**Also, a few historical things to also note:**

**George Gissing was an English social-realist who criticised the newspapers' coverage on the Ripper murders, hence him being briefly mentioned, as well as connected with Erik's sentiments regarding the murders.**

**Mentions of **_**The Daily Telegraph**_** are taken from Lewis Perry Curtis' study on Jack the Ripper. He's got a treasure trove of information in his book, which has been very, very helpful, especially with everything concerning the news articles printed around the time of the murders.**

**Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. I wanted to have a little something up for Halloween this year! :) There's also only one more major part, and then the epilogue. I honestly want to finish this story this year, since it really isn't all that long. But again, I hope everyone likes this latest instalment!**

**Happy Halloween, everyone!**

— **Kittie**

**November 3****rd****, 2011****: Just a quick note. I've revised this chapter, so everything should be finalised and corrected.**


	4. Part IV: The Falling Action

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

_Lord Mayor's Day, 9__th__ November_

"We thank you for your concern, Mrs. de Maricourt, but the Metropolitan Police have everything concerning this case under control," the Chief Inspector, Frederick Abberline, said as he studied the wide-eyed woman before him, his hands resting indifferently upon the stack of carefully bound papers written in her distinguished hand. "I shall take your suppositions regarding this case into full account, as we appreciate any help the public are willing to offer us. As it stands, however, with the whole to-do over it being Lord Mayor's Day and everything, I must kindly ask that you allow us to do our duty, madam, and let us return to work."

Christine stared at the portly moustached man with a show of obvious disbelief. "But, monsieur—ah, I mean, Mr. Abberline," she began, slowly emphasising her words in broken English, "you must understand: I...didn't come all this way to London to _gaspi_—waste your _te_—time. I only wanted—"

"To help, yes, of course," Abberline brusquely cut in, barely hiding his impatience in trying to understand her through her strange French accent. His moustache twitched upward at a sharp angle, his grey eyes boring deeply into hers. "Yes, I understand, Mrs. de Maricourt, and as I've said: your concern, along with your character study of the murderer, is much appreciated." He placed his hands firmly upon the aforementioned study, his words and stance final on the matter. "And now that you have dispatched these, I believe it in your best interest that you return home to your husband, and allow us to arrest this criminal, so that you and the rest of society shall once again be able to sleep soundly."

The former prima donna made to object to his abrupt dismissal of her, her mouth opening slightly to express more than what the Chief Inspector was willing to hear, but then reconsidered. Instead, she conceded to the man, knowing well enough that he wouldn't take her or her character study, as he called it, into consideration. _He'll more than likely toss it into the rubbish bin when I leave_, she thought irritably as she stood and accepted her cloak when he retrieved it for her. She gave him a curt nod, unable to exert a smile, as she found him as well his English mannerisms beyond boorish.

She left the Chief Inspector's office with a decidedly less than enthusiastic air, than when she had first entered as Frederick Abberline paid little heed to her departure when he returned to his work on the case, barely glancing at the stack of papers in his hands before setting them aside on his desk. He had better things to do, than to read through the ramblings of another intrigued reader of that damned _Daily Telegraph_.

He concealed his disgust, however, his thoughts reluctantly returning to the stack. A character study of the Ripper. Imagine. And coming from a woman, no less! Of all the preposterous things. He snorted at the thought before bunching the papers together and tossing them into the rubbish bin, his interest in the woman with the face of an angel and a voice to match quickly fading from his mind as he considered her quite a perfect prize for the Ripper—had she been a prostitute—and of the lucky bastard who'd managed to make her a wife instead. Indeed, for all his years of being a happily married man, Frederick Abberline could only concede, if only to himself, that Mrs. Christine de Maricourt made one fortunate man a most pleasant little wife, if with only with exception of that damned curiosity of hers. He thanked God that his own wife hadn't half the gall as the woman who had just left his office obviously had in spades. Otherwise, he would be a most unhappy man indeed—no matter the tantalising angel such a hapless woman represented.

He shook his head at the memory of her, cursing himself.

Oh, bloody hell.

He reached for the crumpled mess of papers and returned them to his desk. A promise was a promise, even if he'd merely humoured the woman he'd given such an oath to. It still wouldn't do to lie to her, even if he was, if in part, curious to see what conspiracy theories she'd drawn up. Whatever he read in those carefully penned words—which he had difficulty in deciphering between her conjoined French and English—still wouldn't change his own speculation regarding the murderer, no matter how insightful a mere housewife presented herself with her good-will and overall curiosity.

No, a curious woman was a curse to any man who had a modicum of sense about him. As Mr. de Maricourt—whoever the hell he was, since Abberline highly doubted that the man in question was an Englishman—was surely touched in the head, although he seemed to have good taste on the external portion of the fairer sex. Naturally the Chief Inspector pegged the faceless entity as an artistic, bohemian sort of man who lavished in dreams and the beauties of a fanciful and doubtlessly overly indulgent world, before turning away from his present musings, and returning to a world that actually made _sense_ to him, his attention far removed from Christine and the stack of papers with their meticulously drafted notes regarding the Ripper, and the method of which to find him.

For after all, a woman's emotional mental state that she so often passed off as her intellect was nothing, compared to the superiority of a man's.

Pity it was, as such, that the lady in question, who, in spite of her good intentions, remained wholly unaware of what the Chief Inspector thought of her, as well as those of her gender. Instead, she brooded over his conduct regarding her help in the case. Perhaps Erik's summation of the English being naturally rude, uncultured, hypocritical brutes hadn't been too far off the mark, although Christine had earlier met a very kind young milliner, who'd personally escorted her to the police department. He'd even looked over her French defects—compared to the Chief Inspector, who was disinclined to afford her the same gentlemanly courtesy—since she doubted that very few of the English tolerated anyone but themselves. _As it seems that they shove everyone who seeks asylum from other countries, along with the cast-offs from their own society, in the East End_.

It pained her to consider the possibility, though from what she'd encountered in a single day, her understanding of the world in which Erik shielded her from had become all that much more dismal, in comparison to the faint slivers of darkness she'd been exposed to from the morning papers. The streets of London, however, were nothing like their literary counterparts, the darkness, decay, and stench far more palpable and disturbing than anything Charles Dickens and his _Mutual Friend_ could ever render in words. She instinctively shuddered at the oppressive feel of their cold, winding lengths, the eyes of the city itself following her every step.

Pulling her dark velvet cloak more firmly around her, Christine ventured out into the streets, her attention fixed upon a large crowd of people returning to their businesses and residences after watching the Lord Mayor's long precession. She marvelled at the sight of them, the diverse levels of social classes amassed together among a common stretch of road. It was a most wondrous sight to see, as it reminded her a little of the bustling streets at home. And yet, unlike Paris, London, although dealing with the heavy blow of another murder, had nevertheless continued in having its newly-elected mayor with his annual precession. The celebration itself reminded Christine of the lavish parties held at the Opera. She'd even heard that the event was so grand that fireworks would accompany it within a matter of hours.

Smiling at the chance of seeing them, she watched as those close passed her by in a flurry of movement. They barely acknowledged her, as most hurried along with the setting sun. She frowned at the sight of its slow descent beyond the rooftops. It would be impossible to catch a ferry ride back to Calais at this hour, and then hire a carriage bound for Paris. She made a face, knowing that she should've planned this little venture of hers more carefully. Erik would be furious with her if he knew. _But then, he is supposed to be gone another day, and I did leave a note, just in case he happened to return earlier than expected_.

That little ounce of foresight on her part did little to allay her fears, however, as she wandered down the street, her eyes downcast to all who rushed past her. She barely paid them any heed, especially to a small group of boys—street urchins, she believed was the common term for their kind—who laughed and danced merrily about her skirts. They bumped into her twice, muttering their apologies and calling her 'mom' before bounding down the street. She vaguely registered their departure, that motherly feel of longing that she so often possessed wholly nonexistent as she disregarded their strange show of happiness entirely. She didn't realise until much later that those happy little children had picked her pocket, taking the francs she'd kept tied within a handkerchief, as well as the tiny pocket-sized book that translated French into English.

Though, for the present, her attention had been drawn away from the hustle and bustle of the city's human traffic, to the more appealing glow of the sights she walked past. Shop windows boasted only their finest wares. From breads and buns to some of the most lavish French lace and gowns, the shops of London offered very much the same as those in Paris. She heard musicians—fiddlers, mainly—play in the streets as children and their mothers, whose ruddy faces spoke of their unfortunate circumstances, sold hothouse flowers to those returning home from a day's hard labour. Christine pitied the sight of them, for they reminded her of her own childhood, when her father had sold what little they'd possessed, and travelled the Swedish countryside with only his music and the charity of others to sustain them. It had been a hard existence, living from one day to the next in constant uncertainty, but those days of coldness and hunger had doubtlessly been some of the happiest moments in her life.

Looking down into one of those miserable faces, she almost saw her own, as a pair of bright blue eyes held hers beyond its dirtied facade. The child—probably no more than five—smiled, and Christine was heartened by the sight as she opened the small coin purse she held and took out a handful of gold. She smiled when she saw the girl's eyes widen, matching the shape of the coins when Christine offered them to her. She received a white rose in return.

"A prity flower fer a prity lady," the girl child said shyly, revealing her missing two front teeth. Christine patted the child's dirty blonde curls in kind and smiled at the girl's mother, as well as the baby the woman held in her arms. She inclined her head, nodding to them in appreciation as they marvelled at the sight of that which would feed them for a month at least.

Christine smiled to herself when she heard their cheer as she proceeded down the street. Erik had taken her away from that very same, uncertain livelihood, when he gave her a life that she never dreamt of at the Conservatory; and while she now, finally, understood the selfishness and even lack of consideration on her father's part, in exposing her, a child of six, to a fiddler's wild fancy in wandering the countryside and playing his violin, she could not fault him for it. For her father had been a man who'd expressed many talents in his short life, but being a man of practicality had, sadly, not been one of his better attributes. He had been a man who lived on dreams alone, it seemed, and the belief of angels gifting prodigious children with their music. She doubted that he'd intended for someone like Erik coming in the form of a heavenly messenger to watch over her, no matter their shared affinity in music.

Even now, she doubted that it had been within her father's power all along to send her the Angel of Music, but Erik had been a most satisfying substitute, so she could scarcely complain. _Let the real Angel of Music keep Papa company; I have Erik instead_.

She continued on down the street, her thoughts remaining upon that almost mythical figure that had failed to appear. She nearly stopped short, but continued on her way. She considered the Angel of Music in silence; for if she could choose between some perfectly divine, heavily body and her husband whose very flaws she'd come to accept, she'd choose Erik without a second thought. For he, by all accounts, was, by her definition, the very Angel of Music, and no seraphic creature, who could somehow manage to manifest before her now and contest otherwise, would alter her opinion.

Setting the thought of Erik's talents aside, her focus returned to the present as she observed the city and its many foreign locales once again. Bronze statues of various shapes and size aligned the architecture of adjoining buildings, churches, and homes, reminding her very much of the Opera's statue of Apollo. Even the River Thames had been a most impressive sight, with its long, winding body of water that seemed to curve around the city like a massive leviathan, conditioned and controlled by the industrialised hand of man. Even the Seine failed to compare to it, with the latter's more pastoral presence that felt more medieval than modern.

No, London had manipulated this watery source, building tunnels and a unique sanitation system that kept down the cholera and other diseases that had affected both rich and poor alike. The tunnels had both effectively concealed and protected, a perfect place for anyone who needed to disappear quickly; and Christine wondered, if in passing, if the Ripper used its subterranean waterways to elude his would-be captors. Going underground had worked for Erik, after all.

She paused in mid-step at the comparison. Thoughts of her husband living underneath the Opera for twenty years, and his subsequent departure of thereof in order to live a perfectly ordinary life with her had only proven just how different he was from this Whitechapel butcher. And yet, in the several years that had passed since their marriage, Christine silently admitted that she still knew very little of the man she'd married. As Erik, for all of his kindness and consideration, was still ever an enigma that she, at times, failed to understand. Even Raoul had never been as imperceptive as the man she'd believed to be the legendary Angel of Music. No, Raoul had been as clear and as pure as a placid washerwoman's stream, wholly transparent and harmless, compared to the opaque, thrashing, choppy torrent that made Erik so volatile. His _siren_ paled poorly in comparison to his so oftentimes rage that Christine wondered if that dangerously personified creature would ever return to haunt the Opera on nights when she failed to keep Erik at home.

_But then, Erik is nothing like that savage monster, who is likely breathing the same air as his next victim_, she thought defensively of her husband, refusing to recall that night at the Opera, and of the choice she'd been forced to make. He had become so much better since then; he was another man entirely, in fact, although she knew that he still carried the Punjab lasso about him. As a matter of practicality regarding her safety, he'd assured her, and Christine hadn't questioned him on the matter since, knowing well enough that nothing good would come of it. Her continuance in wearing the gold ring he'd given her had assured of that.

In fact, Erik had been good as his word, as she'd never come to any harm, not even when she roamed the streets of Paris, wandering around its brightly lit squares and making purchases for him and their home, although even that was a rare occasion, since Erik usually accompanied her—when he wasn't too engrossed in his music, rather—as any good husband did concerning his wife's welfare among those less inclined to ensure the same. He'd even become very trusting of her going off to the dressmaker alone. _Although he wouldn't be pleased if he knew where I am presently_, she considered, a little forlornly. And yet, there was little else that could've been done; Erik had already left when she'd received the evening paper, and she had precious little time to consider any other choice but to go to London on her own, and aid the police in any way she possibly could.

It was almost impossible to believe, but time _had_ passed, as well as the increase in the Ripper's victims, and Christine doubted that the one responsible would stop any time soon. A little over a month had already passed since the murders that were now infamously linked to the Double Event. As the hand, which had crafted so deadly an execution upon its victims, had been temporarily stayed by some unforeseeable force. The streets of London had received a reprieve, as it were, from the bloody Whitechapel butcher, although it had been one filled with an ever-growing sense of unease. The London papers had continued on in their coverage, undaunted by the lapse in unfortunate victims, as many pursued possible new angles pertaining to the murders and also as to the identity of the Ripper himself.

Most of the reports, however, had been nothing more than false leads or some sensationalist garbage made to keep an ever dwindling public interested. Even Christine, whose own failing interest in the various morning and evening papers Erik received, had become disillusioned by most accounts. And yet, her interest in the murderer himself remained; an ever-present fixation, which refused to abate.

She hadn't heeded Erik's warning of leaving the papers alone, nor informed him of the notes she'd written and kept about each murder. She'd kept those secret, surreptitiously hidden away at the bottom of the drawer in which she kept her petticoats. She'd take them out and expand on them when he wasn't looking, her dark fascination and wild imagination running rampant in the late, midnight hours, while her dear husband remained completely oblivious of her furtive undertaking. For whilst she listened to him compose symphonies of infinite beauty, she transcribed all of the lurid details from each paper before Erik tossed them into the rubbish bin the following morning, not even sparing them a glance as he spoke of his compositions and upcoming operas instead.

He had no idea that her growing interest had become something of an obsession, which consumed her every waking thought not devoted to God, him, or their music. She'd even amassed a small collection of notes—all handwritten in a hastily devised script of conspiracy theories and conjectures that would undoubtedly irritate him—as she attempted to piece together every scrap and detail she'd gleaned from the papers, as well as catching bits and pieces from any passer-by speaking of the murders in the street. She kept her private collection of suppositions to herself. The petticoat drawer was a safe haven from him, all things considered, since Erik never perused through her ample collection of frills and laces, as his predilection in her more intimate undergarments took precedence over such a commonplace thing as something as the accompaniments that complimented her delicate frame.

His disinterest in the murders made Christine want to scream at him, as she often did so inwardly. Though Erik, being Erik, was no less than the man she'd married: cynical and wholly indifferent to the cares and troubles of a world he'd long forsaken coming in such an intricately tied package of life and death. And so, perhaps it really hadn't been all _that_ surprising when she'd finally given him an ultimatum of sorts—nothing really as underhanded or pedestrian as blackmail, though it been a counter move on her part all the same—when she'd ruined one of his potentially rare good moods after one of their more productive music sessions with a choice: Either he take a serious, vested interest in the murders and help her analyse the Ripper and the motive behind his crimes, or he would go to the music room, as well as to their bed, without her or her precious voice crying his name to the rafters that night.

Erik, however, had retaliated in kind, when he departed from their humble home, though not before destroying half of the music he'd composed that morning.

He hadn't returned until later that evening, still obviously in a foul mood as he'd stormed off into the music room and locked the door, without saying so much as a single word to her. His cold greeting had disconcerted Christine, although she hadn't expected any less from him as she continued to hold her ground on the matter—which she had done for a week.

She made him tea and breakfast, as always, yet never smiled or spoke a word to him, while she mainly toiled about in the parlour, refusing to retire to their cold bed at night. Instead, she sat next to their black marble fireplace as she threw herself into one of Verne's or Hugo's novels and drank a hot cup of chamomile tea. She'd barely paid the world beyond those fictionalised realms any heed, let alone listen to a deeply contrite and bedraggled Erik, who'd finally come to his senses and apologised for his behaviour, as he kissed the hem of her skirt and promised he'd do anything if she'd only say five words to him, in which she'd gladly reciprocated:

"_Tell me of his motive."_

Short. Simple. And to the point. He should not have expected any less from her.

And Erik had conceded, although it grieved him bitterly. For although he firmly believed oaths were a way in which to catch fools, his Christine was no fool, and he'd be loath to allow her to ignore him as she'd done for the past week. He took a seat opposite from hers, his words coming out in a deep, rhythmic timbre that quelled the roaring inferno in the fireplace, if not her inner hostility toward him.

"_The man those fools are looking for is a figment of their own, deluded imaginations,"_ he'd begun, those yellow eyes staring almost jadedly at the fireplace before turning to Christine. _"They believe him to stand out from among a crowd of prostitutes, opium addicts, and peasants, never quite knowing that they may have very well passed their quarry in their fruitless attempt to arrest him. He may even have a tail and a cloven hoof, for all they are concerned, since the man for whom they are searching looks no different from anyone else. He is perfectly normal, with an equally perfect face and nose to match, although I cannot say the same of his disposition or mental faculties. Indeed, I'm sure that he has a ripping good time by indulging himself in such a demeaning and rather pedestrian pastime."_ He'd smiled dreadfully at the last remark, and Christine inwardly shuddered at this most twisted display of amusement. _"No, my dearest Christine," _he'd continued on, unabated, "_this man that the papers and police have conjured up is no more than a myth, another Spring-heeled Jack as it were, though is flesh and blood and terribly all too real all the same."_

Christine inclined her head in understanding. _"And if he is flesh and blood, then he can be caught,"_ she prompted, to which Erik gave her a sharp look.

"_I highly doubt he'll be caught," _he returned, scoffing at the very notion._ "For if I know these fools who deem themselves as officers and who claim to give protection of the law to those this fell villain has already massacred, then their assailant will not be caught. He will elude them, as well as being discovered or captured, completely."_ He turned once more to the fireplace, his solemn face a bitter mask of cold certainty. _"He will not be caught, as he believes himself a god." _

"_But that's sacrilege! Surely there _must_ be something that can be done,"_ Christine protested, unable to consider the dread possibility that Erik had so apathetically foreshadowed. _"I cannot imagine his crimes going unpunished."_

Erik remained silent for a long while, as he and Christine regarded each other in the growing stillness of the night, the crackling fire and dying embers their only source of sound and light. The thought of blood and bodies and tangled cries for mercy and agony was always a dismal subject for him, and although he adored Christine's tenacity in bettering her awareness of the world around her, he sometimes wished that she remained the innocent girl that she'd been at the Conservatory. As it were, he'd given in, and conceded to that growing madness of hers as he analysed a murderer.

"_If the police wish to catch this _Ripper_, then they must understand that which they are pursuing. For as he taunts them with half-eaten kidneys and notes written in blood, he grows both careless and stupid. He believes that he can continue on, without any chance of being caught. He's developed a taste for killing now, and will not cease in this dark undertaking of his until his own miserable existence comes to an end. He finds such to be a completely normal routine as he considers those around him as nothing more than simpleminded fools, who might one day serve to be another of his victims. He enjoys his craft, revels in it, as he grows more accustomed in removing body parts as trophies."_ He nearly spat out the last bit, wholly disgusted as he was by such a juvenile measure, for _he_ never kept mementos from any of his victims. The siren, perhaps, but never Erik.

Nevertheless, he'd continued on in his thoughtful analysis, and Christine listened, as she mentally noted every detail and suggestion her husband offered. It was how she'd drawn up her collection of notes for the Metropolitan Police, after all. And while she'd originally intended to send such to the department anonymously, this evening's paper had opposed that notion as coming in person had been her only option.

But now the police had her report, and the hour was, to her dismay, growing late. It would be wise to find an inn and stay the night, safely tucked away from more than a killer of unfortunate women. And Christine was just about to heed that good bit of common sense, only to find the francs she'd tied in her handkerchief missing from her pocket. Her face contorted into a mixture of fear and despair as what little she'd had remaining she'd given to the little flower girl and her family, and she doubted the white rose they'd given to her in return would purchase a room for the night. She certainly didn't have enough for the ferry, as the only thing she had of value—the ring that Erik had given her, as well as all of her other fine jewels—had been safely kept at home. She'd had enough sense to leave her wedding ring there, having set it upon her note explaining where she'd gone to Erik if she failed to return before he did. That small bit of prudence on her part relieved her enormously, considering that she'd no wish to lose her wedding ring, along with the money she'd already lost by a band of child pickpockets.

A troubled sigh escaped from her nonetheless. Erik would murder her if he knew of the trouble she was in; and she could only blame herself, since what did she, a former opera singer, know of the world? She'd been sheltered for most of her life; first by her father, and then by Mama Valérius, before Erik had taken her into his husbandly custody. She'd really never known the world, never truly saw its horrors firsthand, since she'd either been too young to understand them or too engaged elsewhere to know the difference.

And so, in the midst of her present fears, the former prima donna wandered the cold streets of London, passing by the broken-down, withered faces of poverty, pain, and suffering. She instinctively wrapped her velvet cloak tightly around her, those delicate pale fingers standing against the oncoming night's chill. She glanced down at the dirty cobblestone street with hooded eyes, and wished that she was anywhere but here.

For the evening passed and night soon descended on London once again. The dregs of society—the poorest of the poor that the upper and middle classes had conveniently swept underneath a lavish carpet of shame—toiled about the street corners and rundown pubs, as Christine walked blindly into London's dark East End. She did not enquire of those whom she passed as to where she could find any decent lodging, doubtful that any of them could speak French, let alone Swedish, as her broken English was more of a hindrance than a welcomed attribute.

And so she walked on, passing by the few establishments that remained open. And every so often she would look in through the open or shuttered windows, their guttered light casting yellowed-tinged slivers upon her cloak, as she watched people gather around closely to one another, and speak in diverse tongues—not only the Cockney dialect of which she'd heard for the better part of the evening, but also those that she'd heard Erik sometimes speak in, when he either sang in so heavenly or swore in so hellishly. He never taught what any of it meant, either way, since he'd return to the customary French for which she'd been so long accustomed. And yet, how she wished now that he had taken the time to develop her foreign language skills, particularly in English, since she could scarcely read the signs that directed her to another street.

She wasn't even for certain if she was anywhere near where the carriage conveying her from Dover and the ferry had deposited her; she was so confused and turned around, as London, it seemed, was even larger than Paris, almost like a monstrous creature spawned over some ancient battlefield over night. Christine frowned, desiring nothing more than to close her eyes to it all, and wish herself in the comforting arms of her husband instead.

_But Erik isn't here, just as I shouldn't be_, she thought dejectedly, and continued on the darkened path which led into the shadows. She paid little heed to them, as the oncoming fog began to surround her, obscuring her already poor vision. She silently scolded herself for not purchasing a pair of spectacles, but her own private vanity had railed against the notion, and Christine had been hard-pressed to concede the one beauty she found about herself, although Erik so often praised her as a creature divine among mortal men. His accolades stood little to attest to her present dilemma, however, as she made her way in the darkness, passing by a few bedraggled women who scarcely paid her a glance, their bloodshot eyes too engulfed in gin and a life that had seen better days. The men, on the other hand, acknowledged her, and Christine inwardly shuddered at the attention they gave her, as they called out to her, complimenting her tall, willowy figure. She barely understood them, although she interpreted their whistles and catcalls very well.

She'd received the same at the Opera, and even in the street, until Erik had put an end to them. With one sharp glance, he'd silenced their admiration of her ultimately. She thanked God that he hadn't used the Punjab lasso, grateful that, instead, he'd let it go, and returned home with her instead. But Erik was not here, and two of the three who'd called out to her were now heading in her direction. Her eyes widened at the sight of them, her heart beating wildly at the raw ugliness of their grins. Oh, dear God.

"C'mon, luv, tha's no' a way ta act," said the taller of the two, the lamplight casting upon his dirty blonde hair a putrid amber sheen. His foul smelling breath made Christine want to vomit.

"'Deed nought," agreed the other. "Ye see, missy, Tom an' I 'ere, 'ave taken quite a fancy ta ye an' ye fine cloak thar. We's believe tha' our own misses would like one jus' like yors." He grinned maddeningly at her through his blackened teeth—a Cheshire cat smile, Christine discerned—that bordered on the grotesque.

Without considering the consequences of her actions, she took a cursory step away from them, and into the shadows, unaware of the sinister comfort they had provided for one, far worse than a pair of mere bug-hunters. "D—do f—forgive me, good messieurs, but I—I must be on my way. My...husband will wonder where I've gone," she replied, her words escaping her in a jumbled fashion. Neither of her unwanted companions, however, seemed to accommodate her desire to acquit herself from their company, their thread-bare coats hinting at the taught muscles underneath, ready to extract from her that which they yearned to grasp in the folds of their calloused, dirtied, thieving hands.

Christine bolted the moment they reached for her.

And barely escaped...

...By the forfeit of her cloak.

She stumbled into the darkness, deaf to the fading guffaws of laughter of her would-be captors as she forced herself to run in her velvet-heeled shoes. She bit the lower half of her lip, ignoring the pain of her feet as she fell, once again, upon the filthy cobblestone pavement, her stockings muddied and torn, her knees chafed to a scouring red. Christine shook her head. The pain they gave her mattered not, compared to the coldness that presently racked through her delicate frame.

For indeed, London was far colder and more austere, it seemed, than her beloved Paris—even colder, perhaps, than her childhood memories of Uppsala, and the many, biting winters that she and her father had endured as they traversed the countryside in search of those with an inclination for music. Erik would find a most fitting irony in her present discomfort, considering how her lineage had braved the extremities of the cold north for countless generations, as she, a frail wisp of a thing, could scarcely endure even the slightest shift in temperature. He would find her vulnerability both amusing and terrible; for Erik, even in his blackest rage, never wished her any pain, let alone the slightest discomfort in feeling cold. Her eyes held back icy tears at the thought of him and the figurative warmth his cold arms represented.

She instinctively shivered as she pressed on into the shadows, looking helplessly for any sign that might direct her away from the nightmare from which she was presently engulfed. Oh, if only she could find shelter for the night and enough coinage to pay her way there and back home. She would never leave Paris again. She'd had enough adventures to last her a lifetime. Living with Erik had provided more than her share of earthly fears and delights, whereas anything beyond them bordered on being garish. For even she had to admit that Erik had opened her eyes to a world, much larger and grander than she, in her twenty-seven young years, had ever imagined, and he'd done it all through his voice alone.

He'd never taken her outside the north of France, let alone beyond its pastoral borders. But the stories he told of faraway countries and royal courts filled his words with bright, vivid hues of reds, greens, blues, and oranges, and exotic scents that both intrigued and tantalised Christine by turns as Erik interwove the sights and sounds of his past into an intricate tapestry for her in the present. It was almost a complete edition of the _Thousand and One Nights_ and Tolstoy's _Anna Karenina _made into a single literary epic that captivated her for hours. Little Lotte and her Angel of Music dulled poorly in comparison to the vivid, effervescent existence that had taken her husband to places she knew she would never hope to see. Erik had reassured her of that, a cold finality in his words, as those yellow eyes hardened at the very suggestion of visiting such places. _"For there are some sights that one so pure and innocent should never see," _he'd expressed, raking a skeletal hand through the thin remainder of his hair, saying nothing more.

But Christine knew that he'd meant her, as his disinclination in continuing their discussion suggested something too dark and dreadful that neither she nor her curiosity dared conjure up by asking him. As there were some stories that Erik would never tell her—a fact that she'd accepted with an understanding heart—as part of his past would forever remain enshrouded in the fog that presently obscured her own surroundings.

She passed by Berner Street and Batty Street, Miller's Court and Buck's Row, all the while watching those whom she came upon with a cautious eye. She said nothing to them, her eyes remaining carefully averted, so as not to draw too much attention, behind the thick dark shroud of her hair. Her curls lay in terrible disarray from her scuffle with the two bug-hunters, as well as with her falling in the street. Undoubtedly the rest of her attire was in a dishevelled state, her midnight-blue velvet skirts harbouring the same dark filth that inundated the streets. And yet, Christine couldn't care any less about the state of her gown or hair, caring only to escape from this nightmare reality that so many were forced to endure.

Grasping her upper arms in an attempt to warm herself, Christine glanced up, hopelessly looking down an ever-winding, endless street as the dull tolling of church bells and strident explosion of fireworks caught her ear. She breathed out an almost-sigh of relief, her azure eyes brightening as she compelled herself to walk faster, regardless of her blistered feet, the brown brick edifice of stone and its towering steeple a most welcome sight for her tired eyes. She smiled in spite of herself as she stared up at the steeple in childlike awe, another of the Lord Mayor's fireworks exploding behind it in a sheer bright-blue explosion of light.

_God must favour blue,_ she thought, comparing the fading sparks of light to the distant heavens, as the church itself, though staunchly of the more traditional papal feel, was no less welcoming. It didn't matter to Christine if this was an Anglican establishment, or even a Quaker one; any sight of something representing something of the Lord meant more to her than the discrepancies that so often countered her more Protestant views. _Surely_, she reasoned, they would not turn a fellow child of God out into the street, on the basis of some matter of conscience or formality. She'd married a Catholic, after all, albeit Erik was lapsed in his preordained faith.

"Since there must be some form of Christian charity for those in need," she reasoned quietly to herself, unaware of the wide-eyed, open stares she received when she alighted upon the church's steps, and approached one of its massive wooden doors.

"Surely ye don' mean ta ask _'em_ anythin', luv," one of her onlookers said in a sedate, yet wholly disbelieving, tone.

Christine turned to the woman in question, her attire automatically revealing her occupation. "_Par_—Forgive me, but I—"

The woman grinned, her missing left eye-tooth adding a strange sense of warmth to her roughly stunning appearance. "Ah, Aw never tho't Aw'd see a Frenchie t'night! But tha' don' mean anythin'. Ye mus' be new 'ere."

The implication, however rough in its translation, was not lost on Christine. "Oh, you mis—misunderstand! I was merely..." She looked nervously to the streets, and then to the church, before meeting her addresser's quizzical green-eyed gaze, as a woman in a shocking scarlet-red dress, with an emerald-green shawl, stood before her. Christine stared at the woman in tacit, wide-wonder, but then recovered herself. "I...need a place to stay for the night, before I can return home tomorrow."

The woman, to her good fortune, seemed to understand. "Aw see what'chu mean, dearie. An' ye cert'nly come ta the righ' place, ye did. Although Aw hav' ta say tha' ye won' be gettin' any 'elp from _'em_—no' unless they're willin' ta take a tumble behin' the confessional, which isn't likely a' this time o' nigh'." She inclined her blonde head towards the church. "Ain't any of us girls gettin' any 'elp from that bunch o' 'igh an' 'oly gits in thar. No, they reckon God don' wan' our lot in thar wit' the res' 'oo can earn decent 'ages wi'out 'avin' ta sell 'er body in ta pro'ess." She placed her hands firmly on her hips in an authoritative fashion, a pair of fingerless black gloves revealing the beauty of her painted fingernails.

Christine secretly marvelled at the sight of them in their bright-red beauty, having seen such only among the social climes of women in position at the Opera, although she herself had never painted hers. She heard her unusual companion laugh, and blushed when she found herself caught.

"Aw pain' 'em meself, Aw do!" she said proudly. "It's me own mixture tha' no' e'en the Queen 'erself 'as, Aw tell ya! For no'on can get 'em as whore-red as Blonde Annie can!" Both women laughed at the bawdy joke, as Christine found herself warming to the woman who called herself by such a name and so openly referred to her obvious occupation. She'd even urged Christine to call her by her Christian name, as Christine asked that she do the same with hers.

They talked for a while, admiring the show of fireworks in the distance, before Annie urged Christine to talk a walk with her around the church. "Can' be standin' aroun' the fron' too lon', since the Bobbies will thin' us loiterin' about, an' sellin' our wares." She frowned when she saw Christine's confused expression. "'Oi, ye _mus'_ be new 'ere, ta not know abo' tha'. Didn't ye know what church ye be standin' at?"

But Christine shook her head, before turning her gaze toward the church in question. "I'm afraid I do not," she said slowly, so that Annie could understand her. "Indeed, I only came to London this very...day. I know not your streets, let alone your churches."

Annie laughed, as if genuinely amused. "Well, tha' is somethin' of a surprise then, Aw daresay," she mused, and then nodded to the church in kind. "Might as well tell ye then tha' 'ooever bro't ye 'ere, shoulda tol' ye tha' this is where we girls come fer the mos' 'art." She gave Christine a considerate look, her emphatic expression bordering on sympathy. "Ye be at St. Bot'lph's—er Aldgate Church, as mos' of the gentry an' finely-dressed charl'tans like ta call it."

Christine stopped abruptly in her tracks. "St. Botolph's-without-Aldgate?" she questioned, and received a nod from a bewildered Annie. Christine stared at the church in flagrant disbelief, and a most terrible understanding dawned across her eyes. St. Botolph's. The Church of Prostitutes. Or so it had been called by the papers. It was the very same church that Catherine Eddowes was said to have frequented before finding herself as the second half to a double murder. _My_ _God_. Christine barely composed herself as she looked once again to her companion.

"This is close to Mitre Square, is it not?" she found herself ask, although she already knew the answer.

Annie frowned at Christine, but then understood her meaning entirely. "'Tis indeed, an' ye needn't worry abo' wot 'appened. Aw knew Kate Conway well eno', 'unny as 'ell. Aw...e'en saw 'er tha' nigh' when she...when." She shook her head, closing her eyes as she dispelled some dark reminder that Christine couldn't see. "It don' matter now, at any rate, I s'pose. She knew better, tho'. She knew wot kind of danger tha' waited in the dark. Aw e'en toll 'er ta be 'areful. Aw only sorry she met tha' kind o' end."

Christine looked down at her hands. "I am sorry," she responded quietly, her sympathies wholly sincere.

Her companion only smiled. "You're ve'ey kind, Christine," she said, her look thoughtful. "An' somethin' tells me tha' you're no' s'pos ta be out 'ere." Her smile vanished when she caught Christine's pained look, before taking the lavish green shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it around Christine. "'Es no' goin' ta be 'appy findin' you gone from away 'ome," she muttered with a sharp tsking in her throat, knowing very well the cause for Christine being out in the streets, and without anyone to accompany her. "Aw'm assumin' ye came 'cause o' all tha's been goin' on 'ere, a'ven't ye? An' ye tho't ye could 'elp, is tha' righ'?" She groaned when she caught Christine's ashamed look. "Dear God, dearie! Yor ve'ey foolish doin' that kin' o' thin'! E'en saw Abberline 'imself, Aw'm sure." She shook her head, a few stray wisps of gold falling from the tarnished pins in her hair. She adjusted the shawl around Christine's shoulders, realising belatedly that the girl's had obviously been stolen. "It ain't much, but it'll keep ye warmer than it will me, dearie. Wit' ye bein' a Frenchie an' all, Aw'm surprised tha' ye ain't 'alf frozen yet, del'cate as ye are an' everythin'."

The depth of appreciation in Christine's eyes could not be measured by this most kind and unseen gesture. As the shawl, with its simple stitched pattern of sparrows and carnations, was far more beautiful than the beaded satin gown she had worn when she played the new Marguerite. She had worn such elegance for a single night; she would treasure the shawl forever. "_Merci_—I mean, thank you," she said, catching a slight trace of rose-scented perfume from the shawl's folds. "It is very beautiful."

Annie merely shrugged off Christine's compliment with a dismissive wave of her hand. "T'aint nothing, dearie. Merely somethin' Aw stitched together one nigh' afore me 'usband came 'ome."

Christine turned to Annie surprise. "Husband? If you have a husband, then why—"

"Fred's me common-law 'usband, since we didn' marry in a church er anythin'. Wouldn't be right, wit' me workin' the way Aw do, an' all," Annie cut in suddenly. "An' tho' Aw love 'im as dearly as Aw do, it doesn' put bread on the table. Fred works the docks, an' Aw work the streets. It's eno' income ta keep the 'ouse and our childr'n from starvin'. Aw know it ain't a decent thing ta do, but it's wot Aw can do, fer me family." She drew silent then, unable to say more, although Christine knew that the woman at her side could speak volumes of her life, and of the occupation she felt herself only capable of doing.

The church would frown heavily upon such reasoning for a life wrought in the dregs of depravity, and yet Christine found herself sympathising with her newfound friend's plight, for she considered Annie a friend, a friend who had given her a shawl and a new perspective on the denizens of the East End. Unfortunates hardly scraped the comprehensive surface of what they really were.

They walked around the church for another quarter-hour before one of Annie's clients approached them, and asked in hushed tones over the matter of her services. Christine watched them as Annie's client, a man in a black bowler hat and finely-trimmed moustache, muttered incoherent ramblings as to what he desired. The two haggled over a price before finely reaching an agreement, as moments passed by for Christine, who stood in blind uncertainty, while her friend remained locked in a momentary embrace before stepping away from her present patron.

She gave Christine a sorrowful look that bordered on regret, before demanding of the man another sixpence, to which he generously offered—after she whispered a promise of another added tumble for his trouble—and made her way to the former prima donna.

"'Ere," she said, handing Christine the sixpence, and then a shilling for good measure. "Tha' should be eno' fer a 'oom fer ye till the morn. It may e'en be eno' ta get ye back ta 'aris," she added, with a hint of a smile. "Aw figure ye might be safer in a molly 'ouse, but thar's a place—a fine place—called Mrs. Moffet's. You jus' take the High Street thar," she directed, pointing toward the large bit of pavement in front of her. "An' ye follow it till ye reach the end o' the way. Turn left, an' then righ', afore ye get to a lane. There's a large building' a' the end o' it—a brown brick one. That's ta Missus' place. Ye jus' go in an' tell 'er that Aw sent ye, an' she'll set ye up fer the night, afore havin' 'er son hail a hansom fer ye in the morn. Don' worry abo' the ferry; she'll see that wha' Aw gave ye will be eno' fer tha'."

"Thank you, Annie," the words barely left Christine before she gave Annie a sisterly embrace that bordered on tears. She felt the prostitute stiffen at the unexpected contact, but then felt a pair of strong arms return the gesture before Annie placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Ye take 'are o' yerself, Christine," Annie returned, as those green eyes, which had seen more than any woman of her age should, brightened in spite of the hazy yellow lamplight that painted the streets in grey, sepia tones of decay. "Ye go on 'ome an' to tha' 'usband o' yers, an' promise God, yerself, an' 'im tha' ye won' do this agin."

Christine only inclined her head, a solemn vow, as she heeded Annie's words of caution. "I promise, Annie. As I now understand that I could never be of any help in catching that horrible man." She glanced at the man in the bowler hat as he took a drag from a cigarette that he'd lit, and turned back to Annie. "Be careful yourself, and may God and the angels be with you, my friend," she told her, and she received a bold laugh.

"Don' ye worry 'bout me, dearie," she returned with a winsome smile, her missing eye-tooth adding a subtle beauty that even the angels themselves might envy. "Aw'm no' about ta let ol' Saucy Jack near me, considerin' tha' Aw know all me clients, an' won' take anyone Aw don' know. Aw ain't no fool, an' Aw certn'ly ain't stupid eno' ta let 'im near me er me throat, fer tha' matta. Aw'll be fine, Christine, jus' fine."

And with those parting words, Christine watched her friend and the man in the bowler hat turn the corner as they ventured into the fog before disappearing completely. She grasped the shawl in comfort, its frail length keeping her perfectly warm as she turned and made her way down the path that Annie instructed she follow.

She barely walked a quarter mile before finding herself lost in a maze of houses, dark corridors, and passageways. Nevertheless, she pressed on, never diverging from the High Road until she came to the corner that Annie had mentioned being there. She went left, and then right, before finding herself at a dead end. Frustrated, she muttered an unladylike curse before turning around, her right hand raking through her tangled curls in a show if unease. _Oh, Erik, if you could only see your Christine now, what would you think of her_? she mused quietly to her faraway husband, a hint of delight betraying her present vexation as another of the Lord Mayor's fireworks burst into the air. She stared up at its flashing red light, her exposed ivory throat rendered to a dull pink, a bright smile upon her wondrous face, before it fell completely in the midst of the shadows as one of them stepped out in front of her.

A footstep followed. Then two. And Christine looked forward, her eyes meeting those well-attuned to the dark—those eyes, which she'd both imagined and seen in her darkest dreams—as they looked upon her, their hollow gaze as though looking through her, back to the wall in which she almost stood pinioned against, before returning to the foreground—to her throat.

Something silver moved in the half-drawn shadows, a sharp twitch from a dexterous hand, cast off from a distant gas lamp. It moved at its wielder's side, horrible and glinting, ever-ready to serve as it had in Miller's Court, with a bit of red still on its handle.

Blood.

Dried blood.

A third footstep sounded, a figure of a man stepping out into the light, with a knife in hand.

And Christine suddenly paled as she stood there, face-to-face, with the man whom all knew as Jack the Ripper.

...

**Author's Note: Okay, so I am now going to confess that I was, officially, really creeped-out when I finished the final segment of this chapter. It was one o'clock in the morning and I typed this, while listening to Sir Simon Rattle's score of **_**Perfume: the Story of a Murderer**_**. Yeah. Or, more specifically, I should say the "I Enjoy My Work" track, which is eerie as hell, and is definitely worth the time in listening to. It's certainly no accident that I chose to listen to it, while working up to Christine's inevitable meeting with a certain Whitechapel butcher. Really, this whole chance meeting came out of nowhere, since I'd originally framed this story with Erik and Christine not meeting Jack the Ripper at all. O.0; I blame it on being unable to sleep after finishing the last chapter. That's where that last bit really came from. I think crazy things, whenever I'm roused too early from my sleep. Seriously. **

**I also apologise in advance if Annie's accent wasn't completely accurate. I have the worst time ever translating a Cockney accent into words. It's really something that should be heard and not read, much like watching Shakespeare performed instead of simply just reading his work, you know?**

**And, yes, for anyone who caught onto where I was going with Mrs. Moffet possibly having anything to do with **_**The Silence of the Lambs**_**, congratulations. I also thought there was a lady who had an establishment by that name in Holborn, but she was actually Margaret Clap, whose establishment coined the phrase, "molly house," undoubtedly after her name. Somehow, I just associated Moffet with Molly for some bizarre reason. I've really stopped questioning the goings on in my mind, since there really isn't any use in analysing it anymore, more's the pity of it.**

**So, anyway, yeah, a few very important things to note lest I forget them:**

**From what I read of the headlines of that time, Mary Jane Kelly's murder wasn't reported in the morning papers on the 9****th****, since her body was discovered before the papers had any time to print anything regarding it, so most of the coverage was printed the following day, even though there were some papers that printed news about the murder in their evening editions. The whole hub-bub with 9****th**** being on Lord Mayor's Day also might've stalled more extensive coverage for that day, as well. And, also, logically, even if Christine had gotten the evening edition that day, she really wouldn't have had time to get to London that evening until well after sunset. It would've made more sense that she go the following day, to help Abberline and the police out, but, really, I wanted her to go on Lord Mayor's Day, so I'm going to ask everyone to suspend some disbelief on the timing a bit. **

**And, also, since I am getting into the nit-picky details of this chapter, I also understand that unless Christine had heard the **_**daroga**_** speaking of the rosy hours of Mazendaran, when he and Raoul were trapped together in the torture chamber, understandably, she would probably have no awareness of that period in Erik's life; however, I am sure that, given the years she's been his wife at this time, he may've let some of his past slip to her, surely during one of his blind rages. So there's the explanation for her knowing about Mazendaran. Really, at this point, I've gotten a little past caring for these kinds of rationalities, since I just want to have some fun in writing this story, without having to worry over the slightest conflicting detail, which can just sometimes become downright tedious at times. **

**Though more importantly, I hope that everyone has enjoyed this story so far. We only have one more chapter left before this story is finished! Hooray! :) I am so happy to finally have some inspiration for this crossover of sorts, as I hope to finish it very soon indeed! **

**Thanks again, everyone, for the encouragement, reviews, and messages. All of it really means a lot to me! :)**

**Until the final chapter!**

— **Kittie**


	5. Part V: The Resolution

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

_The moment_

A guttered scream escaped from the back of Christine's throat—one, very similar to the fervent cry of a victim in her final death throes before that inescapable undercurrent overshadowed her in an all consuming silhouette of darkness—yet hers only surfaced as a hushed whisper of a sigh. The fear of simply standing there, before Death himself, paralysed her senses. She could not speak, could not move to defend herself from the inevitable ravaging of her throat, her body rendered limp and helpless as her eyes rested upon the shadow of a man before her and the long, bloody knife he held in his right hand.

_Oh, foolish, foolish Christine, what have you done_? her mind chastised; an unseen litany, that tore at the very moorings of her being as the pain in her throat intensified. Very soon blood would erupt from that which housed her voice, a delicate shade of crimson, the warmth of her life's blood pouring out upon the pavement, cooling as her body would while her executioner went about his work.

She almost looked down to see the imagined scarlet ribbon there, but restrained herself, her eyes never diverting from his. For if there was one thing she knew, in her time with Erik, it was that a victim should _never_ break eye contact from her assailant, that questioning, condemning look that determined whether a person might live or die, and she _would_ live; she only needed a moment, before some nameless bystander appeared, passing by the moment she needed him most. Stalling for that allotted time, yes, before she truly felt that abhorrent knife at her throat.

And so Christine stared, her wide blue eyes holding the Ripper's in surprising reassurance. She looked upon him with a touch of confidence that Erik himself had instilled in her, yet only found the Ripper's own gaze devoid of any human feeling. Her soulful look contorted into one of disgust instead of fear. She would receive no sympathy from him, no expression of some kind of newfound humanity, from this pathetic creature who claimed himself a man; he was lacking in the sentiment entirely, a soulless monster with an ever-gaping hole inside of his chest instead of a heart.

Christine silently cursed him. Even Erik, for all his madness in bringing down the chandelier to put an end to Madame Giry's would-be replacement, and his genuine threat of blowing up the Opera and all within it if she did not choose to become his living wife, had never been as swift and unyielding in his execution thereof as this man before her, who only revelled in the petty delights of simply murdering for the sake of it. He repulsed her thoroughly. And she stared at him with a deep-rooted, burning conviction of a thousand judges seated amongst the fires of hell.

"You _are_ a monster," she said in perfect, unbroken English, her neck tilting a fraction upward, as if daring him to make a go at it.

Everything came to an abrupt stand-still as Christine watched, in helpless fascination, the man who stood so gravely before her acknowledge her with a slight inclination of his head.

She bristled at his audacity. But then, all too soon, she felt the fear the she'd momentarily suppressed well up inside of her. He was merely playing a game with her. A game! She didn't know whether she should laugh or cry at the peril she was so obviously placed in. She caught the faint trace of a smile, those lifeless eyes brightening as the moment of her demise drew closer and closer until she could almost feel the edge of his knife at her throat. She saw him move, his body poised for the moment he claimed her delicate white throat as his.

The knife flashed in the darkness.

And a smile followed in the wake of its sharpened glint.

This was it. This was _how_ he'd murdered the others.

The realisation of it dawned bleakly across the former _prima donna's_ face, and Christine knew that he was more than a mere murderer of unfortunate women; he was an executioner, a collector of sorts, forever caught up in that everlasting gaze. Mary Jane Kelly was only twenty-five when the Ripper came upon her in her dingy flat in Miller's Court. She was twenty-seven; a mere two years that poor girl's senior. She was the right age, the right height, the right build. She was no longer the pure-hearted virgin of her youth. She was a woman. She was exactly what he wanted.

But then, if he desired what he'd taken from some of the others, then he would find himself gravely disappointed. _Since Erik has already taken that, just as the scar he left reminds me every day..._

Her brain snapped at the thought of it.

And when the Ripper discovered as much, seeing its long, puckered length across her abdomen—a mark that Erik claimed, time and again, was as beautiful as it was necessary—as he would inevitably do, what would become of her, then? Would he cut out one of her kidneys as he had Catherine Eddowes', deface her, and send part of her remains to George Lusk, with a taunting letter to accompany them? Or better yet, would he carve her up in the same manner as Mary Jane Kelly, as he exposed every part of her, and put everything on display beside her mutilated body, with only a barely recognisable face that hardly passed as a face? The very thought of him doing so with that blade in his hand nearly made her cry out as she watched him, standing there, without a face of his own, that murderous intent expressed solely through those soulless eyes—eyes that were so unlike Erik's yellow ones, and yet so very much the same. She trembled at the sight of what they promised, remembering—oh, remembering!—when she herself had been faced with a choice between a scorpion and a grasshopper, the fate of the world itself, seemingly within her grasp.

But there was no choice between a scorpion or grasshopper this time, no other alternative, other than the one presented before her now. It was in that terrible moment that Christine knew, with undue certainty, she was going to die, another unfortunate victim of the Ripper's, in the midst of his grand Autumn of Terror. How fitting an epitaph, it seemed, for a woman who portrayed Faust's Marguerite and was wed to the Opera ghost himself. She had once heard, from one of the ballet rats—La Sorelli herself, perhaps—that a person's life flashes before his eyes upon the point of death, that he sees all, past and present, before darkness forever enshrouds the sights and wonders of a life suddenly cut short in its prime, that thrumming heartbeat sounding no more in a stilling moment of cold, relentless solidarity. Her own time to see whether such was true or not had come at last, and she was forced to put that theory to the test.

She did not bolt, did not cry out, steeling herself instead against her silent fears as her eyes remained locked with his.

_Holy angel, in heaven bless'd..._

_My spirit longs with thee to rest!_

She made a silent prayer to God, consigning herself to Him and His mercy, as she prayed, most ardently, for the continued tenure of her husband's health and sanity, before accepting her fate. And yet—_and_ _yet_—as she remained in that stolid state as that of a Canovian statue, she could not help but take a cursory step back, knowing in full that a brick wall stood behind her. She still stepped away nevertheless—from her would-be murderer and the knife, with its invitingly sharp edge—a human reaction as natural as breathing, perhaps—as she collided not with cold stone but against something softer, firmer, and yet all the more resilient instead.

A pair of hands seized around her throat before she even realised it, clasping it in a possessive manner that she knew all too intimately. Cold and seemingly unyielding, the pair of appendages wrapped around her tightly, the skeletal feel of them the very personification of Death himself, as they shifted, pulling her closely against the body attached to them, and the cold stone chest whose heart beat for her and her alone. Christine froze at the feel of its solid beat, although not out of fear…but relief.

"Erik," she breathed out, her face turning slightly away from the Ripper as she caught sight of a pair of yellow eyes in the shadows, burning, and tinged with a hint of hellfire.

He had come. Out of all the assured impossibilities of his being here in London, he had come regardless.

And Christine wept, though not before seeing the tiny piece of catgut coiled around his left hand. The Punjab lasso. She stared at it, if only for a fleeting second, and then to the knife held so haphazardly in the Ripper's. She unconsciously clasped the lower half of her lip between her teeth, her mind frenetically comparing one man to the other, as their choice weapons, however strikingly different in their execution, nevertheless providing the same, inevitable outcome.

For there they stood: the former Phantom of the Opera and Jack the Ripper, man to man, murderer to murderer. Two sides cast from the same coin, yet different all the same. Their similarities were beyond disturbing, and yet it was their differences that resonated soundly with the woman held between them, a lovely pawn, whose very existence decided the fates of both men.

A man with a death's head and a man with a face as any other. Scorpion and grasshopper. A choice once again.

She chose the scorpion without a second thought.

Turning once again to Erik, she acknowledged him in full, and saw, to her silenced horror, that he held her in the shadows without his mask. She almost cried out at the sight of it.

For in the many years of her marriage to him, and the subsequent times which followed upon her seeing him without it, had dulled her to its overall horridity. He wasn't handsome, by any means, but he was far from the walking corpse she'd spoken of to Raoul. In fact, she had gotten quite used to his face; however, seeing it as she did presently, revisited that long abandoned fear of when she'd first unmasked him. For the man who held her was not her Erik, nor was he the musically-inclined, prodigious angel, but the Opera ghost himself. The Phantom of the Opera, who had struck fear into the hearts of the _corps de ballet_ and beyond—that very same, ghastly entity who'd out of doubtless boredom, lined the underground catacombs and passageways of Paris with gunpowder, simply for the hell of watching the city and its many denizens burn.

_That_ was her husband, and it was that part of him that had come upon her in the Ripper's clutches. It was a most shattering reality. However, in spite of it, Christine was hard-pressed to exert any sympathy for the one who clearly would've shown none for her. With a look that assured Erik of her understanding, she allowed him to do as he would with the Ripper, as that tiny bit of catgut tightened around that dexterous hand.

Erik's face, however, remained perfectly free of emotion, his sunken eye sockets emphasising that murderous intent, as he looked upon the man who'd sought to murder his wife with that pathetic instrument deemed a knife. A fraction of a second passed, while time itself seemed to return in full, before speeding up when Erik tilted his head forward, his death's head exposed in full.

The knife fell from the Ripper's hand, although Erik failed to notice it, those yellow eyes promising nothing but a most painfully exquisite death.

As it was then, that the Ripper—whose very face, until that moment, remained devoid of human emotion—exerted a wide-eyed fear that doubtlessly mirrored that of his victims', those hollow eyes and vacant expression first shifting to disbelief, and then to one of palpable terror.

And Christine smiled, justified. She almost laughed at the fear she saw etched upon the Ripper's face, for it appeared that there were far worse things than a man who murdered helpless women in the dark of the night. Worse things, like the man she loved, as he held her so protectively in the midst of confronting a tactless butcher who had tried to carve a name for himself in London's squalid streets. But no more. For Christine was neither unmarried nor a prostitute. She did not fit into his exclusive gallery of victims. The game, such that it was, was over.

But then as that realisation had ultimately come, so too did Jack the Ripper deign to make a cautious step away from both husband and wife, as Erik allowed him to escape that tiny bit of death held so exquisitely in his left hand. Christine watched the nameless felon turn tailcoat and run, warped and terribly disjointed in his strange gait as his shadow bled against the foggy passageway, before disappearing into the darkness, without so much as a word.

A sigh—one that she hadn't realised she'd held—escaped from her as she felt that she could finally breathe. She smiled up at her husband, her eyes returning to their previous lustre. She almost even expressed as much to him, although her gratitude for his much-needed appearance died on her tongue when she caught the look he gave her.

"Erik—" she tried to say, to _explain_, but was silenced by his gloved fingers, pressing firmly against her lips.

"Not a word, Christine, _not_ _one_ _word_," he grated out darkly, clutching her right arm as he led her away from the dead end alleyway, and into Whitechapel's High Street. "If you value your voice and your life, do not say another _word_."

She wisely remained silent for the rest of the way, as Erik half-led, half-dragged her away from the poorly-lit streets of Whitechapel, and into London's more respectable West End district. She scarcely noticed the cloak he'd wrapped around her shoulders, and was only vaguely aware of the mask he'd so discreetly put on, concealing his horrible face once again. The mask did precious little to hide his anger, however, that murderous gleam in his eyes only enhanced by the unnerving quality of his very ordinary façade. She couldn't bring herself to look at him.

An eternity seemed to pass, although it couldn't have been more than a quarter of an hour before Christine found herself in a lavish hotel which rivalled that of the luxurious Hôtel de Vendôme, its white marbled interior the very antithesis of everything she'd seen, not an hour ago. It was almost too much to bear, this blinding white grandeur, yet she utterly refused to wilt like a flower in the midst of her repulsion.

She barely heard Erik speak to one of the hotel's staff, dazed as she was by all that had transpired, and of the obvious rage she felt pouring off of him in droves. He was going to punish her, of that she was certain, and most severely at that.

A moment later, she was forcefully led to a staircase, and then up, to another level by that ever-directing, gloved hand. She didn't know how many stair steps they'd climbed; she'd lost count on the fifth flight, just as the many stares they received—from both staff and guests alike—went thoroughly ignored as Erik, with the arm he held captive, guided her down an immaculately well-lit hall, with only one destination in mind.

Christine could scarcely put one coherent thought with another before a door opened and she was thrust into a room. She compelled herself not to cry out, her attention instead fixed upon the gaslights and fireplace that lit the room with an almost welcoming touch of domesticity. Fresh ivory painted walls and a fancy Persian rug only added to the room's beauty, as the large bed in the centre of the room added enough subtlety to suggest this to be a bridal suite, compared to the many common rooms the hotel surely boasted.

She barely noticed the room's many luxuries, however, her attention remaining upon the tangible rage that her husband barely maintained. She sighed in spite of herself. Dear God, he was angry—far angrier, than when he had been when she'd received Raoul's letter regarding Mamma Valérius' passing—as he duly reminded her of the anger she'd seen him display _that_ _night_. She inwardly shuddered at the memory of it. They'd had their quarrels since then, yet never reached that same, dismal plain as that night under the Opera, and Christine adamantly _refused_ to see them repeat the horrors of that night.

Gathering the remaining vestige of her courage, she brought herself to her full height and spoke: "Erik, I understand you are angry with me, but, _please_, let me explain."

He cast her a seething glare, before slamming the door in a fit of barely controlled rage. "What have I told you about speaking, Christine?" he asked, as if he were addressing a dim-witted child. "Not a word, my dear, remember? Lest you care to end up with your pretty face quite blue in the morning, and Erik highly doubts you want that, since you're far prettier with air in your lungs and a hint of rose upon those lovely cheeks." He laughed insidiously when he caught her wide-eyed stare upon the Punjab lasso that he still had wrapped surreptitiously around his arm. "And now, be a good little girl while I'm away, will you?" He reached for the door's handle, his hand grasping the knob firmly before adding, "You are not to open this door for anyone but me, _do_ _you_ _understand_?"

Christine could only incline her head in understanding, her voice rendered fearfully mute. Erik left without another word, the door locking behind him with a decidedly loud _click_.

...

Hours seemed to pass in a flurry of restless moments. Though time itself mattered little, since Christine had long abandoned keeping track of it; for there she sat upon the edge of the bed, staring vacantly at its large mahogany headboard, lost in thought. She shook her head, as the black miasma that retained her thoughts perpetuated into an almost verbal confrontation with herself. Silent condemnations and justifications assaulted her by turns, tempting her to vent out her present vexations and throw something as Erik was often wont to do—which only increased her frustration—during the many times they argued.

For where, _just_ _exactly_, was he?

She had a few, vague ideas as to his present location, though he could've been in a thousand different places; for Erik, like God, could be anywhere if he so chose. _Since the only place he's not is with me_, she considered dismally, and looked once again at the clock on the mantelpiece, seated high above the fireplace. The fire itself was only a faint remnant of the warm inferno to which she'd first been greeted. Now, the room had become quite cold, although Christine hardly felt any discomfort, already numbed in both body and mind as she anxiously awaited Erik's return. The cloak at her side only reminded her of him, as she gingerly took its thick black folds into her hands and caressed it, the thin shawl around her shoulders slipping ever so slightly with each thoughtful stroke.

He could be gone for days; he'd done that to her before, and she had no idea how long he'd had the room paid up. On the other hand, he could arrive at any given time; Erik's temperament bordered on the mercurial, as Christine had long accepted his eccentricities as she had almost everything else about him. If she believed in the standard tradition of saints, she could well become one of patience. She almost smiled. Even Erik would find a touch of irony in that.

Her anxiety returned to the fore, when she saw the door open seemingly of its own accord. Fear gripped her heart; where, for a moment, she thought that the Ripper had somehow found her...

...Until she was greeted by a pair of yellow eyes, concealed behind a face that looked like everyone else.

"And _that_ will be the last time _he_ ever mistakes a man's _wife_ for a _prostitute_," Erik muttered quietly to himself, oblivious to Christine and her growing horror when she took in his dishevelled appearance, when he closed the door quietly behind him. He barely paid her any heed when he slipped out of his dark overcoat, the Punjab lasso cast apathetically upon a nearby table, as her voice alone was the only thing that registered in his foggy awareness.

"Erik!" Christine cried out in a throaty, surprised whisper. She wholeheartedly refused to question his whereabouts, let alone what he had meant by his cryptic statement upon returning, yet was nevertheless relieved that it was only he. Forgetting her previous anxiety, she rose from the bed and bounded over to his side, enquiring of him as she did on how he'd opened the door when she, obviously, had the only key. Erik looked at her through his mask, clearly bewildered. She'd apparently forgotten that he was a trapdoor lover, something of he which presently failed to remind her of, as he awkwardly accepted her forced embrace, and the warmth she so willingly afforded him.

He rolled those cold yellow eyes in annoyance, snorting into the dark folds of her midnight hair, yet welcomed her and her silly gestures of happiness and relief that he'd returned to her all the same. She even made mention of her fear that he might've been the Ripper, who had somehow found her instead of him. He almost laughed at the absurdity. Silly girl. Had she expected _anyone_ _but_ _him_? Her naïveté never ceased to amaze him. Yet all too soon, he found his anger returning in full.

Distancing himself from her, he made to stand by the fireplace, a look of loathing deeply embedded underneath the mask. He didn't speak for the longest time, where, for several long moments, only silence passed between them. When he finally spoke, however, the object of his words was a differently matter entirely. "It was very foolish of you to come here," he said sternly, those long arms crossed in obvious disappointment. "When we return to Paris, you're not going to leave the house for a _month_."

Christine looked down at the floor like a guilty child. He hadn't forgiven her yet. She wasn't surprised; she wouldn't forgive herself, either. And yet, she summoned the courage to speak, no matter the fury she would inspire because of it.

"Erik, I know that you are very angry with me," she returned quietly, " but please try to at least understand that I simply could not stand idly by and do _nothing_, not when so many have been suffering because of this man. These murders are _unconscionable_," she continued on, unabated. "I know there is evil in the world, and it is personified by men such as him, but no one deserves to suffer as these women have. I actually met one in the streets, who even showed me some kindness." Her hands grasped at the shawl that she still wore instinctively. "I never knew...never realised how horrible the conditions in Whitechapel were until I saw them for myself. I never understood it, Erik, not since I was kept from having that kind of life myself. And those women—" She shook her head, her hands reaching out to him in understanding. "I wanted to help them, since I've—" She stopped short, unable to go on, although both already knew what she'd meant. _I've experienced the same firsthand myself._

Erik said nothing in regards to his abducting her, or those dark hours where his madness very nearly decided both of their fates. But, nor did he turn around. "That still stands little to reason to help them, my dear, since they're already dead—quite dead, as a matter of fact," he returned sharply, before he directed that accusing gaze upon her. "You really have no idea, do you, of how _dead_ you might've been yourself tonight? You frightened me, Christine! You frightened your Erik!" he wailed, those skeletal hands reaching upward, as if in supplication to an unseen God. "Don't you understand, you foolish girl, what might've happened if you hadn't left that note and Erik hadn't found you when he did?" He shook his head, his tall frame racked with terrible tremors, as he produced what Christine belatedly realised was her wedding ring. "You could have...he would have...Oh, but you _know_ what _he_ would've done, clinging so desperately to _me_ as you did. Foolish, mad Christine's curiosity got the better of her again, Erik knows this." He nodded to her, a strange gleam in those yellow eyes. "But does she know what Erik would _do_ if he lost her, I wonder? For where would Erik _be_ without his Christine? Undoubtedly turning grasshoppers left and right in every city, from New York to Shanghai, I say!"

He turned away from her then, his eyes falling upon the dying fire. "You could've very well left your Erik forever," he muttered, a hollow semblance of the voice that made angels weep. "That lowborn murderer…had not even the decency to make his victims half-way presentable. But then, even _I_ have never always been as tactful. The siren can be a very messy creature to clean up after, you understand," he mused disturbingly, before returning that golden gaze upon her. "In point of fact, your Erik is no better than that debaucher of women's anatomy."

That comment made Christine white with anger. "But he is nothing like you!" she objected, most vehemently, continuing when she caught his incredulous stare. "And don't you dare say otherwise, because I know for a fact that you would never derive the same form of sick pleasure in removing that which marks a woman of her sex. Did you ever attain any keepsakes from those whom you killed? No? And _why_ is that, Erik?" she prompted, yet refused to allow him to answer, bold and strangely accepting as she was of his murderous past. "It's simply for the fact that, on some, deep, emotional level, you didn't enjoy killing. Unlike Jack the Ripper, you havea_ conscience_."

The man in question remained shockingly silent, rendered speechless as he was by his wife's little outburst. Where she had attained her newfound tongue and that deep-set conviction in some imaginary code of honour that he'd somehow misplaced went beyond his present understanding. Nevertheless, her defence of him impelled a silence which shocked him to his very core. For in all of his tumultuous years of living amongst those who despised his very existence, no one—not his mother, nor his father, not even that damned, prying _daroga_—had ever come to his defence, let alone suggest there being any inherent goodness in him. It was a lovely fallacy, his displeasure in killing—a most beautiful lie, even. And he would've told her as much, had he not been so caught up in a raging storm of certainty which surged through those azure eyes, that deep-set conviction, again, compelling him to accept her benediction of his character for what it presently was.

And perhaps she was right; he would never know for certain, although she was right about one thing: he hadn't killed for pleasure—not in the same way as this murderer of unfortunate women. _He_ certainly never kept his wife's uterus as this bizarre anomaly of an even-dithering expression of humanity had so obviously enjoyed in collecting. And he afforded her as much, since it was the least he could do.

"You are, in essence, correct, my dear. But then, Erik should understand that his Christine, with her purity and innocence and the goodness of her soul, has a tendency to attract those less than worthy of her benevolence."

The former _prima donna's_ hard expression fell a fraction, as if unsure whether he meant crazed, murderous lunatics in general or if he exclusively resigned himself to that category. Or perhaps he'd meant both? With Erik, she could never tell. And it was as such that she made to change the subject. "You worried me, being out so late," she expressed, before approaching him, a gentle hand falling upon his arm. "But I'm glad you've returned. I was genuinely afraid without you near me."

Erik instantly scoffed at her heartfelt words. "Oh, my dear Christine, if only you _knew_ what you were _saying_," he returned bitterly. "If you only _knew_ where I've been this night, then you might be inclined to change your mind in having me so near you."

Christine regarded him warily. "Erik," she began, but was unable to say more, as that haunted look in his eyes silenced her.

But Erik waved off her pleas and continued. "Nothing you could say can undo what has already been done," he returned with cold finality, as he threw her ring at her feet. It clattered to the floor before falling terribly silent. A final judgment. He watched her pick it up and return it to where it truly belonged. "You have a habit in losing rings, although I daresay that Erik is rather good at finding them again. It would be wise of you not to lose it again, however, since Erik cannot promise what might happen if you do."

It was a thinly-veiled threat, and Christine could only nod her head in understanding. She was nothing more than a puppet now, his present ire commanding the strings to which she was forever attached. Her compliance seemed to appease him, though, as his dark mood shifted, if only slightly.

"Now that Christine has her ring once again, we can disregard the fact that she ever left it to give her poor, unhappy Erik a start; for we know better now, don't we? We know that she won't go traipsing about in another foreign city behind Erik's back." He smiled grimly when he saw her shake her head. "Good, now let us forget this whole matter, shall we? Erik has grown tired of this subject, as well as this city. He'd honestly wished never to see its streets again. Nor does he wish to think of that dreadful fellow—what was his name, dear, the one that fool in the papers had given him? Erik has forgotten it entirely in his old age—since what good would it have done him anyway, when you no longer have what he wants? Erik already took that from you, after all. Yes, Erik must have," he absently mused of himself, before turning a painfully disturbing eye upon Christine. "Your stupid, foolish, careless Erik, who would rather die like a dog, than to hurt you as he did that night."

She winced at his tone as she watched him a pour himself a glass of wine from one of the bottles on the other side of the room. She watched him drain its contents before he poured himself another glass. He was blaming himself for something out of his control—_again_—and he intended to drown out his sorrows by thoroughly ignoring her. Christine would not have it. "Erik, what happened to me that night was not your fault."

The wineglass shattered against the wall, the merlot staining its pale ivory-toned hues to a murderous dark-red.

"Yes, it was!" he shouted over the sudden stillness. "Having you bear Erik's _deformed_ _child_ and nearly die yourself was _entirely_ Erik's fault." He ignored her subdued protests when he took her by the shoulders as he pulled her close, one of his hands blindly grasping at the lower half of her abdomen, where the scar rested. He heard her cry out, and his face contorted into a mask of rage. "Tell me, Christine, tell your Erik to his face—to his hideous face!—that it was _your_ _fault_ when he put you into a twilight sleep and butchered your body. Tell him that it was _your_ _fault_ when you awoke to find that you could no longer bear his _dead_, _horrid_ _child_, or any other, for that matter. Tell him, Christine, tell him that!"

Christine's face fell, the very embodiment of a mother's loss. And yet, in the midst of her own pain and Erik's injurious words, she held onto him regardless. "You did what you believed was necessary to save me, and I do not regret it, Erik, I don't." She looked up at him, with tears in her eyes. "I do not hate you for it." She felt his arms tighten around her, his entire frame racked with broken, half-inaudible sobs. She whispered his name and ran her fingers through his thinning hair, tears of what could've been and what they subsequently lost mingling together as both had suffered in silence over the loss of their child.

Erik had never wanted it, but watching Christine those many months, in the glow of impending motherhood, had been enough to appease him, as he'd finally accepted the idea until he nearly lost her in the process. As one look upon that deformed, stillborn visage had been enough to convince him to take desperate measures from losing Christine to a monstrosity born from his own, wretched seed into his own hands. And so, when she had recovered—he dare not call it a birth; such an event was far from that celebratory occasion—he had induced her, having taken that ever-trusting, ashen face into his loving hands and placing a solemn kiss upon her forehead, before tearing into that perfectly rounded flesh of her still-swollen abdomen until he found that which marked her a mother—a heavy, bloody thing that had stained his hands, all sanguine and sweet—to bear all of the horrible, would-be children if it remained intact.

He'd cut her uterus, delicately, away from her, and threw it into the fire, without so much as a second thought. He'd even sung it and the child he'd wrapped in a blanket a requiem mass, stitching up his beloved with the carefulness and dexterity of a most accomplished surgeon until only a thin, jagged line of what he had done remained.

He'd buried the child near the well, though no headstone marked its final resting place. No, as far as Erik was concerned, only the body of some fool who'd found the siren and bore Christine's ring was there. There was a score of old phonograph records that some collective group of fools had decided to be buried there, too, although he had little care for those, whatever sound they contained, since he left them as they lay, buried until another collective group of fools came to collect them. The child itself, with its putrid grey flesh and jaundiced yellow eyes—which had looked upon him, a sickly, accusing, mirrored image of the monstrosity he so indubitably was—however, would never be found. He had seen to _that_ personally.

And yet, Christine bore the memory itself as she had their child during those long, pain-filled hours in silence, while she clung to Erik in the midst of the tidal wave of emotions that threatened to consume her. Tears were in her eyes, though he did not see them, as she became a prisoner to his anger and his madness once again. For now, she almost missed the profound silence that had occupied her thoughts during Erik's absence, as memories of his taking her to their child's grave revisited her like a lingering phantom.

They had gone only once—since Erik constantly refused to take her again—and laid a bundle of white carnations and baby's breath upon the primitively-dug mound of earth that harboured their sleeping child. They had moved out of the house by the lake soon after; Erik's reasoning that they should have done so as soon as she'd returned to him, since he couldn't very well bring doctors, nurses, or whatever else she might require down; the siren, he had explained in a most unsettling tone, would be far from charitable in the toleration of their presence. And Christine, both weak in body and spirit, had accepted his reasons, as they had moved into their present home not long after.

They rarely spoke of the almost-year they'd spent underneath the Opera, as Christine suspected that the night she'd returned to him—the night they'd consummated their union in his coffin—had been the very night they'd set the tragedy of their child into motion. The realisation of it nearly crushed her, although she sometimes wondered if that knowledge had ever entered into Erik's mind, premature and unexpected in its delivery as he claimed their child had been.

But then, Erik, for all of his brilliance and loving care, was an equally gifted, pathological liar. And Christine knew, despite Erik's claim to the contrary, that it would've been better if their child—she didn't even know if had been a boy or a girl, since only Erik had been the only one present to attend to her, and he hadn't looked beyond its face—had been buried alongside her father, and not by some poor, unnamed victim of the siren. But Erik had refused to leave her bedside then, just as he adamantly refused its exhumation when she suggested it later.

_"It's been taken care of, Christine; that's all that should matter now."_

She had no idea what he'd meant by that, and she honestly had no wish to know. She doubted her heart could withstand the truth, even now. And so she held onto him for what seemed like hours, though only minutes had passed by in the silence that overwhelmed them. It wasn't until she cast a brief glance at the clock on the mantelpiece that she saw how much time had elapsed.

It was a little after four in the morning, and she couldn't summon the strength to sleep, knowing all of her thoughts would either be of the horror of the night she'd given birth or of _him_—the Ripper or her beloved Erik, she couldn't discern which at present—since both instances were nightmares from which she'd never awaken, as they forever dwelled within her thoughts, lingering slightly beneath the surface of consciousness.

She never voiced her dilemma to Erik, although she was sure he suspected. For after all, he knew her better, perhaps, than she knew herself, intuitive and insanely perceptive as his genius was. As there were even times, to which she presently admitted, when she'd gotten out of her depth in trying to understand _him_. She'd long accepted that she would never know the full extent of his past. And yet, she had to _know_. If only in how he'd come in her greatest hour of need, like a fallen angel redeemed by saving her from the fires of hell itself. She heard him utter her name when she stirred in his arms, and she looked up at him, those blue eyes so full of trust, yet tinged with an ounce of doubt. "Erik?" she began, lest her courage abandon her entirely. She felt him shift in her embrace, his yellow eyes regarding her questionably in silence.

_You've found your voice_, they seemed to say, and Christine afforded him a ghost of a smile.

"Thank you for bringing my ring," she said quietly. "I truly missed wearing it, although I was dearly afraid of losing it in the streets, and knowing that I would never be able to find it without you." She felt him regard her strangely, and continued before he could reproach her again for leaving it. "And yet, I cannot help but wonder how you found _me_ in so short of time. How did you do it, Erik? Truly? I'd nearly given myself up for dead."

She heard him give a dismissive snort. "It appears that Christine fails to give her Erik enough credit," he returned dryly. "For did I not tell you that Erik lived in these streets for a time? Every twisted, winding inch of the East End he knows quite intimately. He knows them very well, I assure you. Indeed, in them, he can find _anything_."

"But how?" the words escaped her before she could prevent them. "How can you, Erik? You had to have been no more than a young boy." She felt him flinch underneath her touch, watching him sadly as he turned away from her. "Erik?" she questioned, tilting her face to meet his until he pulled away entirely, his back facing her. "Will not you tell me? You rarely say anything of your past; and when you do, it's always so puzzling. I can hardly discern anything concerning it."

His silence on the matter unnerved her, and she half-expected him to explode at any second. She secretly prepared herself for such a confrontation, as she cast a thankful glance at the thin piece of catgut that he'd left upon the table. She disregarded any connection with it and the ominous recollection of that which he'd said upon his return, having no desire to venture down that dark path which led to another mythical siren. For instead of his screaming at her, or a subsequent breaking of another wineglass, Erik remained in a state of relative calm—eerily so. She almost dared to say his name as she compelled herself to take a step forward before he finally spoke:

"Your curiosity is boundless, my dear. Indeed, I hazard to warrant it among one of your many attributes in infuriating me." He tapped a thoughtful finger against his mask. "You undoubtedly believed that I would express as much; I daresay that you even expected it of me. Well, I must ask your forgiveness in disappointing you tonight. In fact, I'm quite disappointed in myself, but I simply don't _feel_ like violence tonight. This place...is almost suffocating. I feel as if I can hardly _breathe_." He turned to her then, an almost placid sort of thoughtfulness surging through those bright pools of gold. "My past, as with my face, does not paint a very pretty portrait, Christine," he said at length. "It makes Erik remember...things...that he wishes to forget."

Christine stepped forward then, her interest shattered by the despondency in his voice. "Erik," she began, a hand outstretched to him in comfort, "you don't have to tell me anything. Not if it pains you so."

He laughed when he heard her words, a most sinister sound vacant of any humour. "Oh, but you _are_ rather curious, aren't you?" he went on. "Women are _always_ curious of that which they do not know or understand. And heaven help your poor Erik if he's remiss in telling you a story. I'll spare you the unhappy prologue of Erik running away from his mother after she imprisoned him in a mask that nearly became his _face_. That is a story _no_ _one_ wants to hear, and so I'll tell you of how I came to this desolate place I discovered in the darkest reaches of civilisation. You are already intrigued, I see," he mused, gesturing that she draw closer to him, as he moved to sit near the fireplace. "Then gather by my knee, little Christine, and I will tell you a story that bears no resemblance whatsoever to your own idyllic childhood."

A moment passed between them as Christine gathered the courage to sit by his side, mesmerised as she was by the lull in his hypnotic timbre. For Erik always had a way with stories, just as this one, though darker and more heartrending than all of the others she'd heard, was no different.

"It happened after I left my poor, wretchedly beautiful mother to endure a more tenable life without me. I'd somehow managed to sneak aboard a vessel prepared to set sail—where, exactly, I knew not at the time—since I only had half a mind to escape from everything I'd known, and into a life I had only imagined beyond the enclosed attic space that been the whole of my existence..."

And so he told his story, filled with fantastic terrors that not even the likes of Dick Turpin and Sweeney Todd could ever hope to emulate. For the London Erik spoke of was beyond anything remotely found in the penny dreadfuls penned by Rymer and Prest as he re-envisioned the darkness in which had very nearly consumed Christine before he saved her from it. This was not a London in which Little Lotte and her Angel of Music would know; this was a London that was bleak and terrible and all too real—a London that encompassed both Erik and Christine in ways that a gilded Paris never could.

He spoke of prostitutes and pimps, of rundown taverns and opium dens. He even spoke of one of the instances—as Christine was sure there had been many—where he'd seen a girl, no more than twelve, carted off to Newgate when she'd been caught stealing a piece of bread.

"Erik had seen much—too much, perhaps," he admitted guardedly. "And I would've been shackled there too, considering that I'd been found aboard that ship, with only a burlap bag to cover my face. But then, seamen, superstitious as they are, thought me an ill omen as they cast me into the sea instead. Oh, worry not, my dear," he gently reassured Christine when he heard her cry out, "Erik is an avid swimmer, even at such an age! Why, he even found himself another sack with which to cover his face, and clothing along the way, since some had been left out on a clothesline. Mothers should honestly take greater care in looking after their children's belongings, you understand, since even safety pins cannot ensure protecting an article of clothing, or even that of 20,000 francs."

Christine blanched at the implication, and Erik chuckled.

"But, yes, as it was, Erik managed to find his way to London, and into a life that his mother and the God of whom she devoted herself to would surely frown upon." He tilted his head to the side, a thoughtful gesture, before proceeding. "You understand that no godly gentleperson would ever allow _me_ into their home, and that only a prostitute might consider allowing Erik near her while she slept. Yes, Christine, one eventually did, although the memory of how she'd proposed such an offer has become rather faded now. As it was, though, she was young, scarcely a little older than your Erik had been, and in need of what you might consider as a little...protection, yes? She had no man of her own, since hers had taken her from her family in Ireland and deposited her in the East End, where he left soon after." _Or so she said_.

He hadn't said the words, although Christine understood their meaning all the same. Placing an assuring hand on one of his knees, she bade him to continue, to which Erik accommodated her.

"She never saw Erik's face; that he kept well-hidden from her, and she never asked, good, upstanding Irish Catholic that she was, even though her profession dictated otherwise. Ah, yes, Deirdre—did I tell you her name? No?—well, she was a whore as any other, name or not; although she never had a pimp of her own. Couldn't bear being branded with one of their tattoos, I imagine. No, Erik's face was enough for that, even though she made me hide it behind a mask she'd purchased for me, and taught me other things. She and a few of her lady friends developed my craft in picking the pockets of the godly and well-to-do. Since they and God have enough to spare for the unfortunates, she told me once." He issued a thoughtful pause as he caught Christine's sympathetic gaze. "It wasn't a terrible life, Christine; I learned much from her."

And he expressed as much; for, with a slight movement of his hand, he produced her wedding ring in between his fingertips. "Do you see?" he queried, returning the ring to her, "Deirdre was a most accomplished teacher, and Erik her pupil. She taught him much, even though all she really wanted was to return home. She saved every penny she had, refusing to spend it as her companions did on gin. She only paid for the small room she kept, and the food she purchased. She even allowed me a place to sleep by the fire, and Erik made sure to keep it, as I picked every pocket from Threadneedle Street to Grosvenor Square. We had a comfortable life, she and I, for a time. She'd even considered taking me with her to Ireland, but then that was before she saw Erik's face..."

An ominous silence followed, and Christine grasped his knee in comfort. He looked down at her, and smiled behind his mask regrettably.

"I never said this was a pleasant story, Christine, and this will be the only time you'll ever hear it, before I deny what happened entirely, should you ever ask me." It was a promise that Christine knew well to heed, and Erik pressed on. "Thievery can only provide so much an income, you realise, although if I had considered gaining access to the palace at the time—oh, what a delight _that_ would've been!—then our financial woes would've been over. But, no, Erik hadn't thought of that; he was only a boy at the time, and so he resolved to acquire money another way entirely." He became silent then, reluctant to reveal his other method, for what would she say if he confessed to picking the pockets of the deceased? "Even so, that venture had never been enough, for there was more of a danger in that than picking pockets."

Christine regarded him suspiciously, though wisely remained silent.

Erik failed to even notice, lost as he was in the darkened memories of a past that he'd long tried to forget. "And so, I pursued a much different course. Have you ever heard of freak shows, Christine? Travelling fairs have a tendency to include them from time to time," he said matter-of-factly, and frowned when he saw her shake her head. He'd apparently never told her of a similar profession he'd had in Russia. "There was one here, not long after we married. I think you might remember reading something concerning one of the main attractions."

"I remember," replied Christine, her tone darkening. "Wasn't he called by some deplorable name? I cannot remember it now, but that poor boy, Erik. I saw _photographs_ of him, and have read descriptions in the papers…People treated him like an animal."

Her husband inclined his head, as if in understanding. "His real name is Joseph Merrick, but he's more famously—if you can deem it that—known as the Elephant Man. The English _do_ have a bit of creativity about them, no?" he sarcastically remarked. "But then, he has attained much sympathy from those who generally look down on the more common and wretched of their kind. I've even heard that her royal highness, the Princess of Wales, has taken quite an interest in him. You would perhaps consider such a thing impossible, perhaps. On the other hand, it appears to be a shared commonality among royal heads to employ those less than…normal, although the princess' interest seems more well-meaning than that which I've experienced," he finished with a sense of bitterness that left Christine speechless. "Ah, but this is not a discussion of royal intrigue and monsters. No, this is about Erik, and his exhibiting his face for a few extra shillings."

He shifted in his stance, cocking that masked visage to the side in alarming amusement. "Christine should not look so unsettled; it had, after all, been Erik's choice to exhibit himself at the Hall of Ugliness as the "living corpse." He made five shillings for each showing of his wretched face, which was a much better income than picking pockets. Oh, yes, my dear, London's fairgrounds were Erik's first teaching school, in the art entertaining those willing to part with a bit of their _hard_-_earned_ coin."

He smiled wickedly behind the mask that made him appear so terribly normal. Christine barely remained composed in the wake of it, and the appalling, newfound reality with which Erik presented her. She wanted to know his past; for she had suspected some things about him in his youth, but she'd never expected this. Not _this_. "Erik," she began, compassion drawing over that angelic face. "You don't have to go into this, not if you don't wish to."

But he rejected her offer with a careless wave of his hand. "But Christine wanted to know, and Erik would be a terrible husband indeed if he failed in sating that curiosity of hers. Do calm yourself, my dear: and allow Erik to tell his story."

And Christine obeyed him, reluctant though she was when she heard him continue.

"Now where was I, before you so kindly interrupted me? Oh, yes, my time at the Hall. Well, it seems that the not everyone as curious as you has the same amount of kindness and generosity." He gave her an emphatic look. "They turned on me as they did that boy you pity. I'd barely managed to escape from a band of them and their terrible clubs. You cannot imagine the pain in having a wooden club at your back, or even a stone thrown at your skull. That indeed causes quite a headache!" He derived a sense of pleasure in laughing at his past misfortune—something of which nearly brought Christine to tears.

He ignored them and her compassion completely, laughing hysterically as he did in the wake of them. "Ah, but what it was to escape from them in one of the alleyways, while they searched in vain for Erik! You should've seen the puzzled expressions on their faces; I'd quite disappeared entirely, and they never knew how. _That_ became my little disappearing act, which I would later employ in some of my more elaborate acts.

"But, yes, even those most amusing times had to come to an end. Yes, they had to," he mused, a strange, almost thoughtful, expression crossing that golden gaze that never left Christine. "For you see, my dear, some of the Hall's patrons discovered where your Erik resided. He'd barely returned home before he discovered Deirdre's flat in ruins, and poor Deirdre herself being in quite a state over it." He failed to elaborate upon poor Deirdre's state, her bruised face and blackened eyes never quite leaving his mind, as he relived each and every second of seeing his somewhat guardian in tears, her broken arm revisiting a sensation almost akin to regret. "She never blamed me for it," he continued on, regardless. "The money I'd made was substantial for the time, almost enough to book both of our passages to Ireland…"

An awkward silence drew in heavily after Erik paused, the wealth of emotions the flickered across his eyes tattered and disturbing and in terrible disarray. He barely noticed Christine coming to his side, those comforting arms encircling that painfully thin waist as a wealth of tears saturated his fine evening coat. He failed to return the gesture, but neither did he pull out of her embrace.

"Erik salvaged what he could of her possessions," he said thickly. "He even put her to bed that night, with a promise that all would be better in the morning. And Erik kept his word, Christine, for Deirdre had been kind and never demanded that Erik remove his mask, even when, that night she asked and he refused. She never asked again, for she never had to. I removed it, Christine, and she _saw_. She finally saw." Christine looked up at him then, a questioning look betraying the tears in her eyes, and Erik kindly indulged her pained curiosity. "She never asked again, simply because Erik left before she could. He'd even left the money he'd made for her to board her own passage back to Ireland, although I'm not for certain if she used it for that. Erik never knew what became of her. He would like to think that she used it; but one can never tell with women, frivolous as they are with money in their pockets."

He shrugged in her embrace, nonchalant in his regard in the matter. "With the rest, Erik made his own passage, travelling as he did from fair to fair until he became something of a magician. You remember my gift for ventriloquism, don't you, Christine?" he enquired good-naturedly, and Christine inclined her head, shocked as she was by his sudden change in mood. "Yes, it was for the better that Erik never went to Ireland. He probably wouldn't have met his Christine after all, since she's never been to Ireland," he proposed suddenly, and earned a weak laugh from her.

"I suppose not, Erik," agreed a very disquieted Christine. "I imagine that there wouldn't have been an Opera ghost in Ireland, would there?" enquired she, to which Erik raised a quizzical brow, those golden eyes considering her.

"Probably not," he conceded in full, before he leaned forward, finally drawing her into arms. "You do realise that, when we return home, I'm not letting you out the house."

Shame coloured Christine's cheeks; it was a punishment that she no less deserved. "I know, Erik," she whispered against his chest, breathing in the deathlike scent that clung so naturally to him; and she welcomed it, forgetting the fear that it once inspired as her small hands bravely reached forward and tugged at the ties that held his mask. She caught a look of danger in his eyes, but ignored it, assured that he was well within his capacities _not_ to strangle her. "And I understand," she said with an encouraging grin, ever the tempting siren, as the mask fell to the floor with an unceremonious clatter.

Erik barely acknowledged its absence as she took his lips into her own, revelling in their withered feel as she found, in spite of her regret in opening a Pandora's Box of a lifetime's sorrow and regret, that she felt at home, safe in the security that Erik's arms represented. He sighed heavily, an expression of momentary weakness perhaps, although he instinctively attributed it as being the relief of a normal husband, before disregarding its presence entirely.

He said her name then, whispering it as if it were a most sacred prayer that only the angels and God Himself were privileged to hear. And those yellow eyes closed, locking themselves away from the pain and suffering that a thirteen-year-old boy with the face of Death endured; as the woman in that aforesaid boy's arms, now unfortunately grown up and exposed to a world that held monsters such as he, remained beautifully ignorant of that which her simple embrace inspired as he clung to that last bit of light and innocence that had abandoned him when he first revealed his face to an unforgiving and horrified public, almost half a century before.

They remained that way, locked in that stone-like embrace, for a long time, holding each other until the last embers in the fireplace died away to ash and light from the coming dawn filled the room with a white radiance that would never truly vanquish the horrors that the previous night inspired. As a taint, though petty and insignificant in its blighted non-existence, had penetrated the small cracks in Christine's heart, the remorse that she felt for her curiosity, and the regret that she harboured in Erik revisiting the horrors created in his childhood, never truly abating from the warm morning sunlight that set her beautiful face aglow.

For she, like Erik, who had traversed these streets so long ago, had lost a semblance of her innocence, somehow broken by the beautiful sense of ugliness that a timeless London inspired.

…

… Coda …

…

_13__th__ January 1889_

Jack the Ripper was never apprehended.

Nor was his identity ever truly discerned.

As justice, apparently, had failed in obtaining his capture. And yet, there were no more murders as grisly and as horrifying as those during that twelve-week interval of chaos and uncertainty. It was almost as if the Ripper himself had been a ghost conjured up by the London papers, as the murders and their victims seemed as nothing more than a terrible nightmare. Life in the East End returned to a seeming state of normalcy, such as it was, while attempts were made to _better_ that part of London.

For in spite of every lead and piece of evidence offered the Metropolitan Police—Scotland Yard, as most now had a tendency to call it—London's resident serial killer had not been found, although the body of a Mr. Montague John Druitt, a former barrister and assistant schoolmaster, as well as an apparent suicide, had been recovered from the Thames, not long after the murder of Mary Jane Kelly.

The timing of the young man's death had been impeccable, although Abberline himself dismissed the possibility of the late assistant schoolmaster being a credible suspect, as a small stack of papers, dog-eared and bundled underneath a carefully placed amount of follow-up paperwork regarding an American quack doctor named Francis Tumblety, a Mr. Thomas Sadler, and that damnably infuriating Polish immigrant, Seweryn Klowsowski; or, George Chapman, as the bastard fancied in calling himself—all suspects in the Ripper case—carefully concealed the report a Frenchwoman who was presently, as far as Abberline knew, residing with her husband in Paris, yielded more than he dared confess in solving such a dismal and most puzzling case.

He'd only received one other letter of correspondence from her. A note requesting that he return the enclosed small amount of money to a woman known as Blonde Annie, as well as a 'thank-you' for the services she'd kindly provided. Abberline had been stunned by the woman's request, shaking his head by the oddity in her appeal. French mannerisms. A bizarre mixture of customs and informality that he would never, for the life of him, come to understand.

Nevertheless, ever the gentleman that he was, as well as the requirements that his position in the service accorded him, consented to Christine de Maricourt's request, only to pen a returning letter that no woman by the name of Blonde Annie was in residence in Whitechapel, or was even to have been known to have existed in the vicinity thereof. Christine de Maricourt's assertion regarding the lady in question and the woman's more colourful occupation was undoubtedly one of a misunderstanding of sorts, as the phantom woman in the letter only existed on paper.

He even responded with as much, albeit more kindly, in his return missive, offering to return the money—small amount though it was—in full. He instead received another letter, full of cash, requesting that the money, along with the funds in this present correspondence—a very generous amount, at that—be given to alleviate the pain of those who suffered in the East End, a matter in which Abberline himself saw to personally. He'd even expressed as much to the lady who had so generously offered an amount equivalent to that of a thousand pounds, promising that every last pound, shilling, and pence went to the poor.

He never heard from Christine de Maricourt again.

Nor did he receive anything else regarding the Ripper. Carefully discerning detective though he was, Frederick Abberline never bothered to look into the background of Christine de Maricourt herself, or even that of her mysterious husband, an eccentric architect who went by the name of Erik. He'd refrained from that idle curiosity entirely, as the profile she'd given him—the real body of work which led him to consider worms like Tumblety and Klowsowski out of the plethora of suspects he'd been given as the real murderer—compelled him to retain that bit of information for himself. He would burn the profile, once he was finished, lest any should discover it, along with the authoress behind it. In the meantime, however, he would pour over it until he memorised every damned word that Christine de Maricourt had graciously penned.

It was the least he could afford such an insightful and intriguing woman, never knowing that, across the English Channel, in a house that resembled any other in the watercoloured streets Paris, the woman in question smiled happily at that her of husband—unmasked and grinning as darkly as the Red Death—who'd made good on his word in keeping her home, as her thoughts consisted only of him and their music.

A stack of newspapers sat on a nearby table, having gone unread, their fate left entirely in Erik's hands. A fitting place for them, as Christine, in the midst of the music lesson he presently gave her, had at last, come to understand, all curiosity of Jack the Ripper fading away as that of London itself, and the seeming angel who had come in the form of a prostitute, filtered through Christine's mind, who was now half-inclined to suspect more than being a simple superstition. Perhaps Little Lotte's Angel of Music had been a woman instead of a man, Christine would never know for sure. And yet, she was grateful—grateful to be alive, grateful even, for the painful understanding that her curiosity had accorded her. For she wanted to believe, if in some small measure, that her terrible experience in that dark, backstreet corner, a place which held both life and death, had, somehow, been helpful in attaining justice against a murderer who had mysteriously vanished from London, and into the ever-conflicting pages of history.

Erik had never told her what had occurred in those hours when he left her, and she'd never troubled him by asking, finding that there were some things about him that she was better off _not_ knowing. That small peek into his past had been enough to last both a lifetime of questions.

The clock in the hall abruptly sounded the early hour of six, and Christine lapsed out of her present thoughts.

Turning her head slightly, she glanced through music room's elegant bay window, to the bright January morning sky, a silent thank-you in the form of a thought to a kind face who'd given her a shawl—a shawl, that she still, strangely, possessed—before she returned her gaze to the smiling visage of her husband—that most unpredictable and loving of all men, who had mercifully almost forgotten those dark events from two months prior, and who had even taken her on a walk this Sunday past—something of which he also planned to replicate today—as he then kissed her on more than simply her forehead. Christine's eyes brightened in anticipation. He could be fractious at times, and almost impossible to live with, given his violent temper. But, God, how she loved him!

She giggled at the tender gesture his kiss elicited, relieved that he had finally forgiven her, just as she'd finally quelled her curious nature, if only for a time. She laughed then, a merry sound, as she returned that of Erik's kiss in full.

Neither heard the doorbell ring. Nor did they stir at the slight rapping on the outer chamber door. As a very perplexed Pierre, his flaming red hair caught in the full light of the morning sun, stood outside the de Maricourts' residence with the morning's paper held in his small hand.

…

**Author's Note: I cannot believe this story is finally finished, although I am very that glad it is. It **_**needed**_** to be finished, you know? This is also my little contribution to the decade I've been writing on this site. I honestly cannot believe it's been **_**ten **__**years**_** since I first began publishing fanfiction. It's almost a little too surreal to imagine at times. The ending date in the coda is also a blatant reflection of this, as well. I confess that it is something I did on purpose. XD**

**But I am digressing.**

**First and foremost, I genuinely hope that Erik's appearance at the beginning wasn't too much of a **_**deus ex machina**_**. I honestly hate using that kind of writing device, although I find that it would be far more unbelievable if Erik didn't save Christine. I think we can suspend disbelief in this one instance, because Erik is Erik, and he's **_**everywhere**_**. XD**

**Secondly, there are a lot of twists and turns in this finale. I bet no one was expecting that about Erik and Christine having a child. I honestly wasn't expecting that myself until it happened. o.O And, really, like Christine, I honestly don't want to know what Erik did in keeping their child from being discovered by other people. I can imagine a few things, but, seriously, some things are just best left unknown. Also, the whole emergency hysterectomy thing is really something I would imagine Erik doing. I mean, it really wasn't done all that often at that time, and the procedures that were performed usually had a high mortality rate, but I believe Erik knew what he was doing, so Christine survived, with little or to no effect from the procedure. The psychological trauma, on the other hand, is a whole other matter entirely.**

**The twilight sleep was a method used during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries to sedate an individual, mainly to suppress pain during childbirth. It's basically a combination of morphine and scopolamine that produces an effect which leaves a person without any recollection of pain or what had transpired during that induced state. Oddly enough, Queen Victoria swore by the method, after her own experiences during childbirth. I also chose not to go too in-depth with it, since I was a little leery of having morphine and Erik mentioned together in a single sentence. O.0; It's probably shocking to confess this, and I know that a lot of people on here are fans, which I greatly respect; but, also respectfully, I'm really not a fan of Susan Kay's **_**Phantom**_**, and I'm virtually gun shy of mentioning morphine with anything **_**Phantom of the Opera**_** because of it. It's just a subject I try to dodge as much as possible…**

**As for the bouquet Christine places on her child's grave, from what I've read online, white carnations are supposed to represent remembrance/innocence, as does baby's breath with the latter. I've also read that baby's breath is supposed to represent festivity, so there are apparently multiple meanings for these flowers. It just seemed like a bouquet, made for mourning a lost loved one.**

**Continuity-wise, the phonographic records wouldn't have been at the well, at the time Erik buried his and Christine's child, I acknowledge that fact, but I left it in anyway. That should be only thing remotely contradictory to the original novel, other than Erik and Christine getting together. Yeah, enough said on this particular subject.**

**Erik's past, especially the reference about the mask his mother imprisoned him in, and as to why he ran away from home are elements from another story I wrote and posted a long time ago, called **_**Fall from the Angel's Grace**_**. It really isn't necessary to read that story, to understand what's going on in this one. **_**Fall**_** is just an extension of this collective set of stories I've written over the years. It's also something that I really need to go back and revise… (Sighs.)**

**On Jack the Ripper's hand dominance, it was once suggested by a Dr. Rees Llewellyn, who did the post-mortem on Polly Nichols, that the killer was left-handed; however, after some debate about the Ripper's handedness and upon re-examination of the body, Llewellyn began to doubt his initial theory. From what I've read, though, his original theory remains as the Ripper being left-handed, even after he eventually discounted his initial findings. Being left-handed myself, the knife wounds on the Ripper's victims appear to be from those caused by someone who is **_**right**_**-**_**handed**_**. It would be very difficult for someone who's left-handed to inflict those kinds of wounds in the same manner as what we see on the bodies of the victims. As such, Jack in this story is right-handed. I hope all of that makes a bit of sense, since the whole matter is very confusing for me. Oh, and Erik, oddly enough, is actually left-handed in this story. O.0;**

**Abberline wasn't originally going to appear at the end; I hadn't intended his resurfacing in this chapter, although I am ultimately glad he did, since I feel that his presence added a more concrete conclusion to this story. He really helps to bookend this story, in a way.**

**The Hall of Ugliness was a real place, located in Piccadilly, London. If memory serves, it opened in early September 1847, and housed human exhibits. For anyone curious to see **_**Punch's**_** take on the Hall of Ugliness and the freak shows, I'll put a link up in my author's bio, and title it under "**_**Deformito-Mania**_**, **_**Punch**_**, 1847." It really is a very interesting excerpt. I'll also include another link that has a fairly clear view of the sketch of the Hall. But, yes, in regards to Erik being there, I find that such could've been possible, especially since, given the time period, he probably would've been around twelve or thirteen, and Leroux states in the novel's epilogue that Erik travelled from fair to fair, and "where a showman exhibited him as the 'living corpse.'" I found that such gave me enough grounding to have Erik reveal his face to a paying public in London for the first time.**

**Nadja Durback's **_**Spectacles of Deformity**_** and Richard D. Altick's **_**The Shows of London**_** were also very helpful in their insights on the Hall and the freak shows there. , which is pretty much the online goto Jack the Ripper encyclopædia, my constant guide and a most helpful source of info and pictures. And also Wikipedia, for its brief chronology on freak shows, as well as everything else. And, again, Lewis Perry Curtis' **_**Jack and the London Press**_** must receive yet another nod of recognition. I love that book! **

**Joseph Merrick was alive at the time of the Ripper murders, although his time at the freak shows came to an end a few years before that period. For the last years of his life, he stayed in London Hospital. His life is a very sad and tragic one, as I believe that Joseph Merrick is a real life example of the cruelty that those who are different suffer from a very malicious and narrow-minded public. He and Erik are very similar, in understanding how people treat those with medical conditions or deformities. His life is certainly worth reading about, and is greatly recommended. And, oddly enough, I just remembered that Joseph Merrick is actually featured in the 2001 Jack the Ripper film, **_**From Hell. **_**I****honestly wasn't thinking about the film when I was writing about Merrick, but it certainly clicked afterward. Maybe it was my subconscious, but the connection between this story and the film certainly wasn't done on purpose, I promise.**

**One thing that was intentional, however, was the next to final line, as it smacks heavily of Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven." It just happened. Seriously. There's also a hint of Darkness from **_**Legend**_**, close to the end, and a bit of the Smashing Pumpkins in here, as well.**

**And I can't for the life of me remember if I mentioned this or not, but the model for this story is based on the classic Shakespearean plot diagram, hence the chapter headings. I was, honestly, half-tempted to put the coda in another part, but there are only five parts in the model, so it was tacked onto the ending, considering that the conflict is, somewhere, in between all of the other parts. That probably only makes sense in my mind, half-crazed and stark raving as it is. (Shakes head.)**

**There's also some stuff I've left incredibly vague, because, frankly, I don't believe in tying everything up in a neat little bow when I finish a story. The whole thing with Blonde Annie just happened like that, so it's whatever anyone thinks, whether she was a real person, angel, or something else entirely.**

**As for Jack the Ripper, I've purposely left everything regarding him up in the air. I mean, Erik **_**could've**_** very well come across him again, during that time when he left Christine. I honestly wouldn't put it past him in confronting Jack personally. But, ultimately, as with his true identity, it's the reader's call. I truly find it best in keeping Jack's fate completely ambiguous and solely left open to interpretation. It wouldn't be much of a mystery without that kind of uncertainty.**

**Anyway, since these notes are obviously spiralling out into the infinite, I want to close on a very BIG THANK YOU to all of you who have read, reviewed, sent PMs, and have just been absolutely fabulous throughout this whole writing endeavour. You guys mean a lot to me, and so I hope that the ending was what everyone was searching for in this story.**

**Thanks so much again, everyone!**

**Until next time!**

— **Kittie**


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